Fallen
by the-valkyrie-writes
Summary: SS Hauptsturmführer Amon Goeth, Kommandant of Arbeitslager Plaszow, and his Jewish maid, Helen Hirsch, are two people who in a different world never would have met. But every choice has a consequence. Some things cannot be forgotten. Romance/Drama/Angst/Suspense/Tragedy. Amon Goeth/Helen Hirsch. Based on film portrayals. Becomes AU. CHAPTER 18: IMPASSE NOW UP!
1. Loneliness

**Hello everyone! Now, I watched Schindler's List and read Schindler's Ark not too long ago, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who wished for a different, if not necessarily happier, end for Amon and Helen. So I decided to write this. I'm hoping it'll be around 20 chapters long, and it will be, of course, AU.**

**Please review and let me know what you think. Please keep in mind that I am writing this story with Ralph Fiennes' and Embeth Davidtz's portrayals of Amon Goeth and Helen Hirsch respectively in mind. I am aware of the historical implications and do wish to divorce this story somewhat from the true history of these people, focusing only on the film characters. I will try to keep it IC, but be aware that this is AU. That means I may change certain events e.g. Goeth's execution. I do not mean any disrespect with this. ****All characters in this are based on their film counterparts as opposed to the actual people. ****This first bit takes some lines from the film.**

**x the-valkyrie-writes**

**Disclaimer: This story is purely fiction, based on the film Schindler's List. I do not mean to cause offence with this story. Obviously, I do not hold any National Socialist ideals, and do not agree with their motives during the Holocaust.**

Helen shivered in the cool air of the basement. She raised herself from the metal bathtub, clambering out and wincing as her feet touched the cold stone floor. She could hear the sounds of the party above – _yet another night of freedom for those who can enjoy it_, she thought wistfully.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of booted footsteps on the staircase leading into the dingy room. She panicked, grabbing her discarded slip and tugging it over her head to conceal her naked body. She shifted uncomfortably as the garment stuck to her, beads of water still running down her face as she turned to see who had entered the room.

It was him. The Kommandant stepped into the room, looking around the shabby room. Immediately, Helen stood still, her back ramrod straight, not daring to speak, to move, even to breathe audibly. She shivered, from the mixture of the cold, and the terrible fear which had entered her very core. He turned towards her, an unreadable expression on his face.

"So this is where you come to hide from me," he began. He stepped forward, and Helen couldn't help but recoil slightly. "I came to tell you that you really are a wonderful cook, and a well trained servant. I mean it. If you need a reference after the war, I'd be happy to give you one." He looked at her expectantly, but she didn't think he expected an answer.

She glanced at him quickly, before lowering her eyes once again. He seemed almost... sad? Helen banished the thought from her mind. _This man has no feelings_, she thought. He is evil itself. He is Death.

"It must get lonely down here, when you're listening to everyone upstairs having such a good time. Does it? You can answer." He said, waiting for her to respond. Helen couldn't bring herself to even move.

""But what is the right answer?" That's what you're thinking. "What does he want to hear?" The truth, Helen, is always the right answer." But Helen couldn't believe that. She wanted to answer. She knew if she did, she'd say something wrong, but to ignore him was on a par with insulting him.

She was always lonely, too scared to even confide in another of the servants. None of them stayed at the house – they all returned to the barracks at night, but the Herr Kommandant had insisted she stay at the house. And yet, she did not remember him having any particular friends, unless one considered Schindler his friend. Schindler was a good man. He probably had better sense. However, the Kommandant's position of loneliness would be preferable to her own.

He carried on, having anticipated her silence, almost as if she had replied. "Yes, you're right. Sometimes we're both lonely." He seemed to have answered her unspoken thought. He turned away from her. "Yes, I mean, I would like, so much, to reach out and touch you in your loneliness."

He turned back to her, a strange glint in his eye. It was all Helen could do not to run away, to hide in some dark corner where his cold eyes couldn't seek her out. And yet, those eyes seemed now full of something else. Regret? Or perhaps loneliness, as he'd said. He came towards her again.

"What would that be like, I wonder? I mean, what would be wrong with that?" He asked, quietly. Helen sensed an unpredictable, hidden motive, beneath his musing words. "I realize that you're not a person in the strictest sense of the word." There it was again, his unfounded prejudice, bandied about so carelessly. Didn't he see that it hurt her, hurt everyone who was suffering for crimes they had not committed?

"Maybe you're right about that too. You know, maybe what's wrong isn't – _it's not us_ – it's this..." He gestured vaguely around him. She knew he was referring to the war, the situation, the very setup of their society.

_Us, _thought Helen. He spoke as though they were having some sort of illicit affair, and yet she knew he did not care for her. He, she thought, was not capable of feelings of love and affection, especially not towards one such as her. He leaned towards her slightly, before drawing away, seeming to berate himself for daring to go near her.

"No, you... you make a good point. You make a very good point... When they compare you to vermin, rodents, lice, I just..." He carried on, moving closer towards her. He stood in front of her, his eyes watching her face intently. She shivered again, though not from cold this time. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, now so close to hers.

He brought his hand up, Helen thought he was sure to strike her, but he didn't. She felt him touch her hair, uncharacteristically gentle for the monster she understood him to be. She trembled beneath his touch. He touched her face lightly, smiling faintly.

"Is this the face of a rat? Are these the eyes of a rat? Hath not a Jew eyes?" His hand moved to her chest. She wanted to cry at the indignity of it all, and yet she couldn't move. "I feel for you, Helen." His voice seemed lower, rougher somehow. He lowered his head, and for a moment, Helen thought he was going to kiss her. Terrified of him though she was, there were worse things he could do, she thought.

He drew back just before his lips touched her own. "No, I don't think so." His voice was once more cold, unreachable. "You're a Jewish bitch." He spoke quietly, the menace in his words unmistakeable. "You nearly talked me into it, didn't you? Didn't you?" His voice rose to a shout, and before Helen could do anything, he raised a fist and struck a blow against her pale face.

She fell down on her bed, gasping in pain. She could feel the bruises coming on, but it wasn't enough for him. He loomed over, his fists coming down again, and again, assaulting her in a never ending barrage of punches and slaps.

She felt the pain coming in an endless stream. He got up, breathing heavily, and turned away, only to turn back and knock over a set of shelves to the side of where she lay, and it fell on top of her, the contents spilling off the shelves. A pan hit her in the head, rendering her unconscious. She was still, broken and bleeding, in the dark room, the sounds of joviality still coming from the room above where they were oblivious to her pain.

Angrily, his hands shaking, Amon returned to the staircase leading out of the dingy cellar. He started up the stone steps, casting a look back over his shoulder towards the mattress where she lay, unconscious, and the mess he'd created in the room. The unit of shelves was trapping her, and he could see blood on her flimsy white chemise. He felt a pang of something deep in his chest, but turned away; dismissing it as a side effect of the alcohol he'd been drinking.

Now, he couldn't even think of a lucid reason why he'd gone down to the basement in the first place. His jaw set, he returned to the party, the gaiety and the light atmosphere of the social gathering.

He watched Schindler laughing with a pretty blonde girl on the other side if the room. That man did as he liked, said whatever he pleased, and people agreed with him. He was charismatic, and few judged him.

Amon didn't have that luxury. Majola approached him, smiling, but he waved her away and sullenly grabbed another drink.

Somehow, he wasn't in the mood for frivolities that night.

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**x the-valkyrie-writes**


	2. An Enquiring Mind

**Disclaimer: This is based on the events in the film "Schindler's List", and I do not mean to cause offence to anyone.**

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><p>Later, when the other guests had left, Amon and Oskar went out onto the balcony of the house.<p>

Schindler appeared, as always, perfectly composed, and utterly unaffected by the copious amounts of alcohol he'd had that night. His suit was still pressed, his hair immaculate.

Goeth, on the other hand, staggered out into the cool night air with all the composure of a madman, his hair untidy and the top buttons of his shirt undone, his jacket long discarded.

"Yet another drunken revel at the Goeth house, Amon? Don't you think you ought to be more responsible?" Oskar smiled faintly, looking reproachfully at Amon, who had by this point collapsed into a nearby chair.

"Why would I be responsible? Look at what I have to deal with here!" He flung his arms wide, gesturing at the now still camp below. "I am responsible enough, every damn day..."

"Purely for the sake of your own health, Amon. Your liver cannot be at its best..."

"Who gives a damn? We're all going to die eventually. Me, you, the vermin down there. Death comes for us all..."

"But you can choose when. They can't. You hold their lives in your hands. You have the power to choose, Amon."

"I don't want to choose. They deserve to die."

"Perhaps we all deserve to die. And you can't enjoy it. Maybe at another time, without the war..."

"Ha. Rats are rats, Oskar, whatever you call them."

"All of them, Amon? Even the girl?"

"Lena? What's she got to do with anything?"

"Her name is Helen, is it not?"

_I know her name, _thought Amon. "There are too many Helens. The other maid is Helen too. The Jews, they have no imagination..."

Oskar gave him a long look. "Where is she, anyway? She should be clearing up, shouldn't she?"

"Oh, she's downstairs."

"Why?"

"I beat her. Lazy Jewish bitch."

"Amon, Amon, Amon. Listen to yourself. Can't you see that girl does everything you say, and you treat her as if she were an imbecile? There is no need, and you won't find a better maid..."

"Why would I treat her any better? She's only a Jew. I can do whatever the hell I want."

"You can, but the question is, whether you should?"

"I... It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter. She's just a Jew."

"Who are you trying to convince, my friend? Me, or yourself?"

"Stop it, Oskar. I'm too tired for this."

"I'm just saying – do you really count her as one of them, or do you feel differently than you say? You won't even let her wear the star. I'm just curious. You're a good soldier, but you aren't a very good liar, Amon."

"I'm not having this discussion with you!" Amon snapped.

Oskar sighed heavily and got up to leave. "Maybe one day you'll be honest with yourself, Amon." When Goeth didn't reply, Schindler walked back inside and retrieved his belongings before making his way home.

Amon remained on the balcony, his head in his hands. He looked out over the dark buildings of the camp. Schindler was an infuriating man at times, he thought. He may be a good businessman, but he's heading for a fall, with his incessant need to be right and his damned curiosity.

Amon considered what Schindler had said. The man is mad, he thought. It's all very well to employ Jews, to use them for labour, but to speak about them as if they are people, as if they actually matter?

He thought back to his fit of rage in the basement. Maybe Schindler had a point. But she just made him so angry. Just thinking about it made him want to hit something again. There was something about her – the way she spoke, the way she stood, the way she looked at him. Something which distinguished her from all the other nameless filth he encountered every day.

Her eyes used to be so full of sparks, he thought. When he chose her from that group, he didn't know what had drawn him to her, only that he had felt an inexplicable need to own her, to choose her above the others.

She used to be so full of life, charming even the officials who hated her. But a year of working for him had dowsed the fire in her yes, reduced her to a meek servant, too afraid to even speak or meet anyone's eyes.

And yet there were moments when he thought there was a mutual understanding between them. Sometimes he would look at her, and curse the accident of birth which had set them so far apart. Sometimes he even blamed her, though he knew, deep down, it was hardly her fault.

He didn't feel guilt as such for his treatment of her, but a part of him knew he'd gone too far, and one day he could very well kill her in a bout of anger.

Amon winced internally at the thought. Hurt her though he may, the thought of actually killing her, of extinguishing her life, was abhorrent to him.

He had said he'd give her a reference after the war, but he'd rather keep her with him. She should come to Vienna with him, be with him for a long time yet.

Amon couldn't understand what made her different. The other Jews in the camp meant nothing to him – disposing of them was sport, something to do in the morning, a means with which to instil fear, and sometimes just to annoy Majola. He could stir the whole camp with a single shot, the reverberating sound of death. He saw it all; he relished the fear in their eyes. Or did he?

Did he really enjoy it, or was it just a habit, so deeply ingrained in his being that it had become routine? Sometimes, after he killed a prisoner, he would see her, looking at him with a mixture of fear that she'd be next, distress at the death of another person, and disappointment that he had once again been so cruel.

Choosing a target was power. The opportunity to kill, to hurt, to control, that was power.

But as he knew, there was more than one kind of power. The power he held was immense in his own world, and he revelled in it, but it was not a deep sort of power. Not emotional or philosophical. Not something which could change feelings, or even attitudes.

Not like the power _she_ increasingly seemed to have over him.

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	3. The Visitor

**Disclaimer - I do not hold any National Socialist ideals or agree with their motives or actions during WW2 and the Holocaust. This story is based on the characters as portrayed in "Schindler's List", not the real people. I do not mean any offence with the content of this story.**

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><p>It was only just dawn, but the sun was bright and the camp was already at work. Amon yawned, shielding his eyes against the bright light streaming in from the balcony. He turned onto his side. Majola was not there. He could vaguely remember telling her to go away the previous night. She was terribly used to getting her way, and would hardly have been pleased to have been thrown out of the place where she spent so much of her time.<p>

Amon got out of bed, his head throbbing faintly. Thankfully, he was never the victim of hangovers as such, but there was always a slight reminder of his over-indulgence whenever he did drink too much. He grabbed his gun and walked out onto the balcony, as usual. The prisoners were working, they probably had been doing so for quite a while already. He looked around for a target, and decided on a man bent double over a crate, his face creased with concentration and exertion. Amon raised the gun to his shoulder and aimed.

His fingers tightened on the trigger, before he decided against it, and for reasons unbeknownst to him, he lowered the gun again and sighed, before throwing the gun onto the bed, and going back inside. He washed quickly, grabbed a shirt, and stormed out of his room, slamming the door behind him. One of the maids hurried past him. It wasn't _her_. It was one of the others, who lived in the barracks with the other prisoners.

He went to the kitchen, shouting for Lisiek as he went. The boy soon appeared, clicking his heels.

"What is your wish, Herr Kommandant?" he said, meekly.

"Prepare my horse." Amon snapped, pouring himself a cup of hot coffee, and wincing at the bitter taste. He could see the buildings of the Emalia sub-camp through the window.

Damn Schindler and his Jew workers. Schindler... Amon deliberated for a moment, before striding over to the basement stairs and descending into the dark room.

All was as he'd left it the previous night. She was still there. She hadn't moved. For a terrible moment, he considered that she might be dead. No, he thought, relieved, he could see the slight rise and fall of her chest, though her breathing was shallow and laboured even in sleep, and there was dried blood on her shift and her skin.

The shelves were still trapping her. Amon narrowed his eyes. Why was he even there? It wasn't his concern. Sooner or later, one of the other servants would help her or... But she looked so broken.

Was this guilt, he asked himself. Could he possibly be feeling guilt, over a Jew? He didn't know. It wasn't something he was familiar with, not something he often experienced.

You'll regret this, he thought to himself. But even as he admonished himself, he'd already decided. He went over to the unit of shelves and pulled it upright. Helen stirred as he lifted it off her, and shifted onto her side in her sleep. It seemed that the violent unconsciousness had, at some point become sleep. A fitful, disturbed sleep, but sleep nonetheless.

Amon froze. She couldn't know he was there. Nobody could know he was there. Even in the gloom, he could see the bruises, purple and green, flowering on her pale skin. He'd put those there, he thought. Her skin was near translucent, her face troubled, even in her sleep. He picked up the pots which had been on the shelves off the floor, putting them back in their previous places as best as he could. It wasn't as if he was often here, tidying up. In fact, it was so unlike him, he almost couldn't believe he was doing it.

He glanced at her occasionally, to make sure she was still sleeping. He finishedwith the shelves quicky, and sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs, scrutinising the room. It really was quite miserable down there, he thought. He felt an irrational urge to help the girl. But why? He'd done enough already, hadn't he? He remembered telling the boy to get his horse ready, but it seemed distant, and unimportant. There was only now. He didn't know how long he'd been sat there, watching her sleep.

If only things were different. He reached out and, hesitantly, touched her cheek. Her skin was soft, and her normally pale cheeks a little flushed.

Without warning, her brown eyes snapped open, locking on his icy blue ones, and for a moment, she seemed to smile slightly, before the amusement died in her eyes and was replaced by shock and fear.

Amon leapt from the chair, whipping his hand away, not speaking, and quickly climbed the stairs out of the basement, his conflicting feelings fighting an irrational battle in his head.

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><p>Once he'd left, Helen sat up, rubbing her eyes, no longer afraid, but deeply confused. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost nine o'clock, far past the time she was usually expected to be up and working. She was aware of a dull pain all over her body, and she gasped as she saw the bruises and blood all over her.<p>

She recalled the events of the previous night, and frowned as she saw the shelves stood in the usual place, with the contents more or less in the right places. He couldn't have lifted it off her, could he?

Why would her return? Why would he even care? Why did she wake to find him looking down at her, touching her, after his outburst the night before? _And why, above everything, hadn't she minded?_

Helen got off the mattress and washed quickly, putting on her work dress, and soaked her bloodstained shift in a bucket of water, before tidying her hair and finshing putting the room back to order.

She was putting off her return to the main house. She didn't want to see him, didn't want to feel the uncomfortable mix of confusion, fear and helplessness which came whenever she was around him. But it couldn't be helped. She straightened her dress, and ascended the steps into the house.

She went into the kitchen. Thankfully, he wasn't around. She saw Lisiek come in, and he looked shocked when he saw her. "Jesus, Helen, what happened to you?"

Helen raised an eyebrow at his concerned tone. "What?" She grabbed a cloth and started wiping the dishes which were piled up by the sink.

"Your face!" Lisiek exclaimed. Helen turned around, catching sight of her reflection in a glass fronted cabinet.

"Oh!" She said. There was a dark bruise marring one side of her face. It was unmistakeably caused by a fist. She flushed a deep red.

"It's nothing, Lisiek." She, not fully understanding why, didn't want to tell him what the Kommandant had done.

"It was him, wasn't it? He beat you again." Lisiek said, angrily. He was like a brother to her, he really was.

"It's not important. Don't you have something to be doing?" helen replied, scrubbing at a tough food stain on a china plate.

"It was, wasn't it?" Lisiek persisted. "He's an awful man..."

"Lisiek, stop it!"

"Why are you defending him?" Lisiek demanded, indignantly.

"You'll be heard." warned Helen.

"Anyone would think you actually _liked_ him..." Lisiek frowned. "And you look terrible."

"Thanks, Lisiek. And don't be ridiculous. We have it better than a lot of the rest, you know."

"Oh, yes. We work for a violent, murdering woman-beater. Lucky us." Lisiek rolled his eyes. Helen flicked the cloth at him, hard.

"Shut up, Lisiek. Go and do something useful."

"I had to get his horse ready. That was hours ago. I don't know what he was doing, but I think he's gone now. And there hasn't been any shooting this morning. Yet."

Helen turned away so that he couldn't see her expression. "Really?" She asked, fighting to keep her voice neutral. She rinsed the cloth, and dropped it in the sink, drying her hands on her dress.

"Oh. There he is." Lisiek gestured out of the window. Helen looked out, and jumped as she saw the Kommandant riding through the yard.

Lisiek looked at her questioningly. "What?" she asked, irritated.

"Jumpy today?" He asked.

"Who isn't, in this place?" Helen replied.

Lisiek left the kitchen, and Helen stood by the window, watching the prisoners outside. It was true, she was lucky, compared to the rest. He had been right when he'd said that she would get away from all the back breaking work in the camp. Her work was occasionally tiring, but never painful or too harsh. No, it was only the treatment she received which could sometimes qualify as that. But really, she was as much a prisoner as any of the rest of them.

She winced at the bright light streaming in through the window, as the sunlight flashed in her eyes. She couldn't bring herself to move. Then she heard a shout from somewhere in the house.

"Lena! Bring the coffee!" It was him. Quickly, she filled the coffee jug, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at the nickname. She put the jug on a tray along with some sugar and a couple of cups. She took it out of the kitchen carefully. She didn't even know where he was.

She put her head around the doorframe of the lounge, and caught sight of Goeth sat in the armchair, in his full uniform, opposite Schindler. They seemed to be deep in some sort of a discussion.

She walked over to them, and put the tray down on the nearest table, before going to leave. She could feel the Kommandant's eyes on her, but she didn't look up, only began to make her way across to the door again.

"Lena?" She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him, her eyes questioning. "Thank you." He said, quietly, not looking at her. He waved a hand, dismissing her, and she nodded, before leaving quickly. As she left, from the corner of her eye, she could see Schindler looking at her witha mildly horrified expression. He looked at the bruise on her face with narrowed eyes.

She heard Schindler speak, and hesitated just outside the door when she heard her name. She didn't catch all their words.

"... Helen... her face, Amon!" Schindler said. The Kommandant cleared his throat.

"...talk about her... again..."

"...lying... won't solve..."

"STOP IT!" this last was said angrily by Goeth, who came striding unexpectedly out of the room, barging past Helen, not even seeing her, and knocking her into a cabinet.

She lost her footing, grabbing for the cabinet to steady herself, but overshot and fell backwards. Amon reacted instinctively, grabbing her by the waist with one hand to stop her falling, the other hand on her arm. She grabbed onto him for balance, before catching herself, and went to step away, breathing heavily.

He didn't let go. He also seemed somewhat flustered. "Sorry. Careless of me." He said. But he still didn't move away. Helen was acutely aware of his hands on her, of his body so close to her, his face so near to hers. They didn't move, frozen, until Helen heard somebody clearing their throat.

Goeth turned immediately to see Schindler leaning against the door lighting a cigarette, an amused glint in his eye. "I'm going now. Think about that, Amon. I'll show myself out." He walked slowly over to the door, retrieving his hat and coat before smiling to himself and leaving the house, the door closing with a click behind him before the Kommandant could even react.

This time, it was Helen who cleared her throat. Goeth seemed to come to some sort of a realisation, and removed his arm from around her waist. Embarassed, Helen murmured an apology, and hurried away, down into the kitchens, her face burning.

As he watched her leave, Amon mentally shook himself. What was he doing, for God's sake? And God knew what Schindler was going to think now... To be seen in such a position with a servant, a Jewish servant, innocent though the situation may have been, was unacceptable. He shouldn't have helped. He should have just left her.

Oskar Schindler really is insufferable, he thought. He caused this! I apologised to her, thought Amon. As if she mattered, as if _he_ was at fault. Well, he supposed he had been, really.

He hadn't considered what he was doing, only sought to protect her. Even his instincts were betraying him now. He turned on his heel and strode out of the door towards the main camp.

Enough of this foolishness, Amon thought, as he walked further into the camp, banishing all thoughts of Schindler, emotions, and his maid from his mind.

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><p><strong>Hope this was okay! Please leave a review!<strong>

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	4. Speechless

**Disclaimer - The characters in this fiction are based upon the portrayals of these people in the film "Schindler's List", not the real people. I do not intend any disrespect to anyone whilst writing this story, and I do not agree with the opinions put forward by ****_certain characters_**** in this story.**

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><p>Amon walked over to the stables for the second time that day. He caught sight of Schindler getting into his car across the yard from him. Blasted man. Amon went into the stable and led his horse out into the yard. The horse was still saddled up from earlier. Amon climbed into the saddle and started to ride through the camp.<p>

Schindler nodded to him as he went by, and Amon stubbornly turned his head in the opposite direction. He didn't want to see Oskar's amused expression, amusement with a hint of concern and self-righteousness.

Perhaps, he thought, it is high time for another inspection. He rode over to the entrance of Emalia. The guards couldn't interfere here, but being the commander of Plaszow, he was by default the commandant of Emalia, and therefore could do what he wanted.

He'd seen Schindler about to leave, and there was no reason why he'd run into him. Amon didn't miss the terrified looks he received from all the workers and prisoners who saw him pass. When he got to the factory area, he dismounted and handed the reins to one of the guards with a barked order that the horse was to be watered and tied up.

Amon walked slowly into the factory building, work ceasing as the sound of his boots was heard, the workers pausing to salute him fearfully.

"Why have you stopped?" He said, sarcastically. "Keep working!" The workers hurried back to their stations, trying desperately not to make eye contact or draw attention to themselves.

Amon walked slowly through the rows of machinery, occasionally stopping to observe a particular worker. He came to stand in front of a woman who was at the end of a production line making shell casings. There was a box at her feet. He picked up one from the box. It gleamed dully, but the shape was all wrong, and it was dented at one end.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"It is a shell casing, Herr Kommandant." the woman repied, eyes downcast, hands shaking, her terror barely concealed.

"Barely." said Goeth, sneering, The woman had long, dirty blonde hair, and her clothes, despite being of reasonable quality like those of all the Emalia workers, were filthy.

"I am sorry, sir."

"Ja, well. Sorry just isn't good enough these days. Take her outside." He motioned to two of the guards, striding out of the side door of the factory. The guards followed, dragging the woman with them, before dumping her on the ground outside.

Amon looked down at the woman, impassively. She was sobbing, apologising, tears streaming down her face.

"There is no room for poor workers in my camp." said Amon, reaching for his gun.

He brought the gun to the sobbing woman's head, and fired. She was dead instantly, and her body slumped to the ground. "Clean it up." he said to the guards, who nodded in reply.

Amon cursed, seeing the blood all over his boots and uniform. He put the gun back in his belt and went back to the factory. Another man had taken the place of the dead woman, he noted. He didn't bother with inspecting the rest of them - he'd had it with those incompetent fools for the day.

Annoyed, Amon sent for his horse, and rode back to the Red House, giving the horse to the stable boy. He could have sworn that the boy narrowed his eyes at him slightly, but surely, he wouldn't have had the nerve... And why? Amon ignored him and went into the house.

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><p>Helen was polishing the dining room table when she heard the gunshot. It came from the direction of the Emalia factory, and though she didn't often go there, she knew from some of the others that the guards weren't allowed to harm the workers. That could only mean...<p>

No. It might not have been him. Helen put it out of her mind and went back to her work. She had ben somewhat more nervous than usual for the whole day, but the unfortunate incident in the hallway had confused and embarased her even further.

Soon, she heard the door open and close, and the sound of boots on the tiled floor. She didn't leave the dining room, hoping he wouldn't notice her.

Unfortunately, it was the first place he looked. He came into the room in his shirt and trousers, holding his jacket.

"Helen." he said.

"Yes, Herr Kommandant?" She stopped cleaning the table and turned to face him, her eyes widening in shock when she took in his appearance.

His shirt was speckled with spots of blood, and it stained his jacket and trousers. There was also a smear of blood on his left cheek.

"I need this washed." he said, holding out the jacket to her. She took it reluctantly. It _had_ been him after all. She'd hoped differently, naively thought that he wasn't going to kill that day. But just because he wasn't shooting in the morning didn't mean he wouldn't later. And he had.

She wondered how long it'd be before the same happened to her.

She knew she should be scared, but she only felt a mix of anger and something else, something a little like regret. Not pity. One couldn't feel pity for a man such as him.

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><p>Amon watched her as she took the jacket from him, the bruise on her face still clear, shaming him. In her eyes, something like disappointment tinged with fear admonished him.<p>

He didn't say anything. It wasn't as if she'd openly challenged him, and yet...

He undid the top buttons of his shirt, and left the room. He went to the bathroom, frowning when he saw the blood on his face in the mirror. He washed his face with cold water, before changing into cleaner clothes, leaving the bloodstained ones in a basket in his room.

Amon returned to the lower floor of the house, going to the lounge, picking up a paper and sitting down in one of the armchairs.

At times, he wished he din't have such a job. Dealing with these people all day, every day, was so tiresome that he sometimes couldn't bear it.

The constant smell of death was in the camp, in the house, in it's newly constructed walls. Not for the first time, he wished things were different, wished the circumstances of his situation were different.

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><p>Helen walked down the hallway, after taking the jacket to the washroom and placing it distastefully into the washing tub. She looked into the lounge. The Kommandant was sitting in one of the chairs, seemingly deep in thought.<p>

She turned to leave without being seen, but she didn't get a chance.

"Did you want something, Helen?" He turned to her, having noticed her before she could leave.

"No, sir." She replied, quietly. She looked at him, expecting to see anger or a sneer on his face, but all she could see was an expression of indeterminable weariness, the look of somebody who has seen and done far too much, things which nobody should ever see or do.

"If there is something you needed to say, don't be scared. Say it." He said, raising an eyebrow.

"It was nothing, sir." She insisted.

"I don't believe you. Tell me what you were thinking."

She hesitated, but didn't want to disobey him. "You look tired." She said, eventually, stepping into the room.

"I am." He sighed. "I am, Helen. It's hard work, running this place. And Schindler, interfering with everything, his blasted factory..." He sounded more resigned than angry, but still she found it hard to feel sorry for the man. He killed people on a daily basis for no apparent reason, and had the audacity to act like he was the one who had it worst. She was tempted to tell him, but she knew it wouldn't be wise.

"Is there anything you need, sir?" Helen asked, tentatively. He held up the paper. "I'm fine." She turned to go. "Don't leave."

She faced him again, surprise on her face. "Tell me something, Helen." he asked her. "Have you spoken to the stable boy today? What's his name... Lipek?"

"Lisiek. And yes, sir.. We spoke briefly. This morning." She replied, bemused as to the sudden change of topic. He nodded thoughtfully. "Alright. Sit down."

"Sorry?" She wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. She wondered if he was in his right mind. Nobody asked their servants to sit down.

"You heard me, didn't you?" He said, irritably. "Sit there."

Helen walked slowly over to the chair opposite him and perched on the edge, adjusting her dress as she sat down. She was sure that her sligh fear and confusion showed on her face. She was right.

"Don't look so scared. I won't hurt you." He put the paper down, clasping his hands in front of him. "Your... your face. Are you... okay? Have you got something to cover it up?" Amon asked her, somewhat uncomfortably. He looked at her questioningly.

"It's fine, sir. And I can wear a shawl, if you wish." She said quietly, looking at the floor.

"I'll get you something for it. I... lost control. It shan't happen again." He said, his eyes on her. She resisted the urge to scoff. She found that rather hard to believe. He was so _unpredictable_. "Please don't be afraid of me, Helen." He said.

Helen was speechless. How could he go and so casually kill somebody, and then speak to her in such a familiar, almost caring manner? She raised her eyes to look up at him. "I... Alright." He smiled fleetingly.

"You may go, if you wish." he said, picking up the paper again.

"Yes, Herr Kommandant." Helen got up quickly, and left the room quickly, not wanting him to see the conflicting thoughts being played out on her face.

He watched her leave.

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><p><strong>Please review! I know a lot of people have been reading, and I would really appreciate it if you'd let me know what you all think.<strong>

**Thanks,**

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	5. Quite by Chance

**Hey everyone! I'm updating like a crazy person whilst the creative thoughts are still flowing!**

**I just found something out whilst I was researching for this, so I'm going to put it here:**

**Apparently, Goeth was married and divorced twice. His first marriage was from Jan 1934 until Jul 1936, and his second was from Oct 1938 until 1944, which would make him married during the events of "Schindler's List", and thus this story. **

**He then became engaged to Ruth Irene Kalder (Majola), who eventually had his daughter. He had 4 children, the first was a boy who died at 7 months old, from his first wife, and then a son and a daughter from his second marriage, and then a daughter with Ruth, who took his name after his execution.**

**I am going to ignore this, as it is quite clear that my story isn't going to be historically accurate, and none of his kids or wives are mentioned in "Schindler's List". ****_So, for all intents and purposes, he's never been married, has no kids, and has been having a fling with Majola on and off for the last couple of years._**

**I have also changed the ages a little - in this story, Amon is still 36 and Helen is 19. And yes, I am aware that in real life, Majola had dark hair, but she looked blonde in the film, and I wanted to draw more of a contrast between her and Helen so... There you have it.**

**Disclaimer - This fiction is based around the characters of Amon Goeth, Helen Hirsch, Oskar Schindler and various others as portrayed in "Schindler's List" by Ralph Fiennes, Embeth Davidtz and Liam Neeson and others, not the real people.. I do not agree with Nazi motives or actions duing the Holocaust, and hope to not cause any offence through writing this.**

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><p>Rebecca Bau, nee Tannenbaum, had finished work for the day. As usual, she unloosed her hair from the cap worn by all the female Emalia workers, and exited the factory with another woman, Hanna. She knew she wouldn't see her husband, Joseph, until the next day, and she was missing him already.<p>

Well, he wasn't officially her husband. But in their eyes, in the eyes of God and of the other inmates, they were a married couple, as of the last night. Rebecca smiled to herself as she thought of Joseph sneaking into the women's barracks, and old Mrs Dresner doing the "ceremony". But her heart also thumped with fear, even though the danger was over, at the memory of the guards coming to search the barracks for any hidden men.

Thank goodness they hadn't found him.

Together, Hanna and Rebecca started the walk which would take them from the factory back to the inmates' barracks. It was quite a gamble to cross the workers' yard at any time, especially when the Kommandant was at home, with his penchant for shooting prisoners at random, at the first opportunity he got in the day.

Fearfully, Rebecca looked up at the balcony of the Red House. He didn't seem to be there, thankfully.

He'd already come to the factory that day, killed a woman whose work hadn't met his exacting standards. Rebecca had seen him leave, uniform stained with blood, cold fury written all over his face.

"Hey!" came a voice from nearby. A guard was coming towards them. "Hey, Jews!" he called. They stopped in their tracks, eyes lowered. The guard was young and arrogant, an overconfident smirk on his face.

"Take this to the Kommandant's house, one of you. Give it to Marek on the back door. Try to handle it as little as possible, would you? " barked the guard. Rebecca nodded, reaching for the package he held out. The man shoved it at her, spat and walked away.

"I'll do it, Hanna. You go on, I won't be long." Rebecca said to her friend, and turned back in the direction of the Kommandant's residence. She walked past the front door - the prisoners were strictly prohibited from going to the main entrance of the house, instead having to go to the back, where they couldn't be seen. That was, on the unwelcome occasion that they had to approach the Red House.

To get to the back door, one had to pass the main window, which looked into the lounge. Praying that she wouldn't be seen, Rebecca walked quietly past the window, before she, quite by chance, saw something which made her stop and stare.

The Kommandant was sat in one of the chairs near the window, which was not strange in itself, though the sight of him was enough to fill Rebecca with nausea and fear at the prospect of being caught and punished, even killed. His clothes were no longer bloody, and he looked more than a little uncomfortable.

But what shocked Rebecca was that opposite him sat Helen, a dark bruise on the side of her face which was visible to Rebecca.

The Kommandant leaned forward, clearly saying something, gesturing before clasping his hands together in front of him. Helen appeared to reply, shaking her head, raising her hand subconsciously to her cheek. Rebecca couldn't hear their words, and shecouldn't even begin to imagine what they could be talking about.

The Kommandant frowned, and said something which made Helen's eyes widen, and then her mouth moved, a ghost of a smile flickering on her features for less than a second before disappearing as she replied, replaced by a look of troubled confusion.

The Kommandant smiled, and picked up a paper from the table in front of him. Helen stood, straightened her skirts, and left, a most curious expression on her face. She didn't look back, didn't see the Kommandant watching her leave almost wistfully, the paper forgotten in his hands, as Rebecca looked on in shock.

She'd only met Helen Hirsch a couple of times in the past. She had been, in fact, in the line up with her that day when the Kommandant was choosing his maid. She'd looked on with incredulity as he'd stood in front of Helen and commented that he didn't want to give her his cold, before callously ordering a woman who was overseeing the building work to be shot in cold blood.

She remembered the bitter cold of that day, the dread she'd felt at the possibility of having to work directly for _him_. She'd felt pity for Helen as she saw her leaving with him, because she seemed a nice girl, and too kind to be beaten down by the cruel realities of their situation, without the added torment of working in such close proximity to a ruthless murderer like Hauptsturmführer Amon Goeth.

Helen seemed nice enough, but Rebecca rarely saw her since she moved into the Red House, away from all the other female inmates who still lived in the barracks. Rebecca had found that somewhat odd, as other people who worked in the House had continued to live in the camp.

It was unheard of for the Kommandant to engage in conversation with his staff. To see him talking to Helen in such a conversational way was unthinkable, and if somebody else had told her, she'd never have believed them. He was such an unreasonable man, so stuck in his own ridiculous prejudices, stuck on a power trip on a dangerous road which nobody could sway him from. But he had, and she'd seen it with her own eyes.

Helen was Jewish, and thus less than vermin in the Kommandant's eyes, or so Rebecca had thought. Why on earth would he go against his usual behaviors and ask her to sit down, have a conversation with someone who he considered his inferior in every possible way?

Rebecca looked through the window again, to see the Kommandant with his head in his hands, eyes closed, as if he had a terrible headache. She thought it was high time to leave, lest she was caught and accused of spying.

She made her way around the edge of the gardens to the servants' entrance, where she knocked timidly on the door.

It was opened, not by Marek, a middle aged man who was the groundskeeper at the Red House, but by Helen.

"Oh! Hello, Rebecca. Can I help you?" Helen smiled at her. Her cheeks were slightly red, and Rebecca winced as she saw the bruise on Helen's face up close. Helen's smile vanished, replaced by a look of nervous anticipation, her eyes begging Rebecca not to comment.

Rebecca spoke. "Helen. It's good to see you again. You are... alright?" She asked, her eyes darting to the bruise again, as Helen nodded.

"Yes. Everything is fine." she said.

"I have a parcel. Can you give it to Marek for me?" Rebecca asked, holding out the package. Helen took it, already turning to go back inside the house.

"Helen." Rebecca said quietly. Helen stopped and looked over her shoulder.

"Yes?"

"He isn't too awful to you? I can see your face is..." She trailed off uncomfortably. She had no doubt that the bruise she could see on Helen's face was not the only one there. There must be others, hidden by her maid's uniform. The poor girl, thought Rebecca. She's only eighteen years old, and she has endured so much. And yet, don't we all, these days, thought Rebecca to herself.

"No, it's fine. Truly. Don't worry about me, Rebecca. Look after yourself." She smiled again, a sort of sadness mixed with uncertainty in her eyes.

"You too, Helen. Goodbye." Rebecca replied. Helen closed the door, leaving Rebecca standing on the doorstep.

For somebody who showed signs of having been quite seriously beaten, she didn't seem too upset. But some people were good at hiding what they really felt. Perhaps Helen was one such person. Strangely enough, when she'd sat with him, she'd seemed almost happy, albeit nervous.

Rebecca was still confused as to what she'd seen in the lounge. She hadn't wanted to ask Helen about it - she'd have had a terrible sense that she was intruding. Perhaps it was best to forget this whole thing.

Rebecca made her way quickly back to the outbuilding where the women slept, went over to her usual place by Hanna, and said nothing of what she'd seen.

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><p>Helen closed the door, leaning back against it. Sometimes she missed the company of the others. She knew, in truth, that she was lucky, that she was in a much better position than any of the others, and yet she felt more vulnerable every day, alone in the Red House.<p>

She supposed she had Lisiek, but it wasn't the same as being with a group. However, the miserable circumstances of the inmates of Plaszow were not something to be desired, though the Emalia workers had it slightly better than the other prisoners.

At least, hse thought, she had a roof over her head, enough food, and a position where the work wasn't too strenuous.

The windows were open, a cool evening breeze sweeping through the kitchen. Helen moved to the stove, where she was cooking the dinner. Thankfully, there was no party of gathering that night, so there was nothing extravagant to be prepared. The day was coming to a close, and Helen was nothing but grateful. The bwhole day had been downright unsettling.

Helen took the stew from the stove, and put it into a bowl before gathering the cutlery and going to set the table in the dining room.

She set one place at the head of the table, a large mahogany table far too big for any one person, in her opinion. She returned to the kitchen and brought the food out. Upon her return to the dining room, the Kommandant was already there, reading the same paper as earlier. When he saw her come in, he put it down next to him, and waited for her to put the tray down.

"Thank you... Helen." he said. She nodded and left, making a concentrated effort not to look back.

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><p>Amon ate slowly, not really tasting the food, though he was sure it was fine - it always was.<p>

Majola had called earlier. She'd wanted to come over for dinner, and whatever else besides. He'd, for the first time he could remember, told her no. Spending time with Majola was routine, and he was fond of her. Had been fond of her, but recently she'd been grating on his nerves.

For a start, she was constantly complaining about his behavior, his drinking, the lack of attention he was paying her. And the shooting. Especially the shooting. It was hardly her place, Amon thought, to tell him what to do.

She came and went as she pleased. And furthermore, she just... didn't interest him anymore. He didn't feel attracted to her any longer. Perhaps once something became routine, it lost it's draw. Not that she wasn't beautiful, because she was, very much so, but it was a superficial beauty.

Majola, or Ruth, as she was really called, was never seen in public without full makeup and her blonde hair neatly styled. She was obsessed with how people viewed her, and she basked in any and all of the attention she received.

And so Amon was gradually distancing himself from her, much to her chagrin. He couldn't really bring himself to care too much about what she thought about it though.

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><p>Night had fallen, and Helen went down into the maid's quarters in the basement, taking off her apron and sitting down on the mattress, hugging her knees. She was very tired, and aching all over. She knew it was probably more a result of last night's beating than her work.<p>

She changed into the loose nightdress which she always wore, washed quickly, and climbed between the thin sheets. She was too tired to think extensively about the events of the day, and she dropped into a dreamless sleep almost immediately.

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><p>Amon stood on the balcony of his room, looking out into the dark. Little could be seen under the cover of night, save a couple of buildings illuminated by the pearly glow of the full moon.<p>

He went back inside, and stepped into the bathroom to wash. He noticed, quite by chance, a small, cloth bag hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Majola's make up bag, which she'd left last time she'd been there. He opened the bag, not even feeling guilty about going through her things - it was her own fault for leaving them lying around. The bag was full of assorted tins and tubes, but there was also an unopened pot of face powder.

Amon took it out of the bag and went and put it on his desk, before sitting down on his bed. He thought for a moment, before getting up and making his way down the stairs, taking the pot of powder with him.

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><p>The basement was as it always was. She was already asleep. Determined not to make himself known this time, he walked over to the little table in the corner of the room and put the pot of powder there. She would find it when she woke up, and hopefully know why he'd left it for her.<p>

It was for him as much as for her. Her shame was his own, and he hated seeing what he'd done to her. He left the basement, looking back at her as she slept on. It was pure luck that she didn't wake. Quite by chance, she didn't notice him this time.

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><p><strong>Please review, all! If you are reading, please take a moment to let me know what you think - there have been loads of hits and visitors, but very few reviews, and I'd really appreciate the feedback.<strong>

**Thanks.**

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	6. A Mutual Understanding

**Hello! Wow, it's been ages - sorry, all, I've had so much on, it's been crazy. I went to the Czech Republic and to Poland - did the whole Auschwitz tour. I stayed in Krakow, wanted so badly to go and see Plaszow and the Schindler Museum, but unfortunately didn't get time :P If anyone wants to talk about it, PM me, as I don't want to spam you all with another super-long Author's Note.**

**On the bright side, I spent so much time sitting around on trains, that I've written the next 5 chapters already. Now to type them up... It's going to be a job and a half. Inspiration hit me like a ton of bricks... ;) **

**There is definitely going to be a sequel to this. Hope you're still liking it - ideally, I'd like to get 10 reviews for this chapter, so please, if you're reading, please review. I've enabled Anonymous so you don't have to have an account. **

**Sorry about the long AN!**

**Enjoy! :P**

**Disclaimer - You know the score: Based on film portrayals, no offence intended etc.**

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><p>Helen woke with a start. Another nightmare, she thought. It was not uncommon for her to wake shaking, in a cold sweat, from a dream where she saw everyone she'd ever cared about tortured, killed, dreams where she herself was dying.<p>

It was no surprise, really, she thought. Helen faced death every day. She thought back to her conversation with Schindler the previous week.

_There are no rules you can live by_, she'd told him, and she'd meant it. Every day she was so thankful still to be alive, that her life had been spared again, short lived though her relief may be. Anything was better than death, wasn't it?

She did somehow wonder how she'd managed to stay alive for so long. Her life was hardly her own anymore, and she still held the same opinion she had when she spoke with Schindler – _one day, he will shoot me._

Despite Schindler's reassurances, Helen didn't believe she'd live much longer. She glanced at the battered clock on the wall. It was only half past five. Outside, it was still quite dark, only the faintest rays of sunlight were starting to brighten the sky.

Helen washed and dressed quickly, and she was about to start her work when she noticed the small white pot on the table in the corner of the basement. She picked it up warily. It was unopened. She peered at the label. Face powder? Who... Ah, Helen thought. He'd brought it.

He must have been there again last night, she realised. The fact that the Kommandant had once again come down to the basement whilst she slept unsettled her. However, it wasn't as though he'd come in with any particularly malicious intent. Not this time, at least.

Helen had no mirror, so she had to make do with the reflective surface of a metal tray. By the time she'd finished, the bruise on her face was reduced to a faint shadow, barely visible unless someone already knew it was there.

Helen wondered why he'd bothered. It wasn't as if it had any impact on him – visitors to the house rarely saw her, and if they did, they usually would consider her equal to vermin, and besides, the Kommandant had the right to treat his servants however he wished. Helen was grateful for the powder though. She was by nature quite a private person and couldn't bear the pity of Lisiek, Rebecca, or even Schindler when they'd seen her the previous day.

Schindler... It was almost as if he was trying to make trouble. Why would a man like him, with a head full of business plans and figures, bother about someone like her? Notwithstanding his odd concern for her wellbeing, his arguing with the Kommandant had hardly reached any favourable solution.

In Helen's opinion, he'd only made things worse. Not, of course, that it was her place to speculate. Even now, her face burned with shame at the memory of the numerable incidents the previous day. She should have left straight away, she thought. Now you know, she told herself, nothing good ever comes of eavesdropping.

First the very strange encounter in the morning, Lisiek's indignation at the beating, then the barely avoided accident which had apparently amused Schindler so much, the awkward conversation in the afternoon, Rebecca's concern...

It was a new day, but Helen was just as confused as she'd been the previous day. And now this. He hadn't needed to bring the powder. It could almost be seen as... a favour? It would have previously been dismissed as an impossibility, but now?

Everyone was behaving most oddly, Helen thought.

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><p>Amon glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten o'clock, so Schindler would be arriving any minute. Amon sighed inwardly. It was necessary to see him, a pre-arranged appointment to discuss further constructions at the Emalia sub-camp, but Amon wished he didn't have to see Schindler again, especially after the events of yesterday. But it was... necessary.<p>

There was a knock at the door. Amon answered it himself, something he rarely did. It was mostly to save the bother of dealing with the servants. Especially _her_. Amon wondered distractedly if Helen had found the powder, before putting it out of his mind as Schindler stepped into the hallway.

The men shook hands and walked into Amon's office.

"So, how's business?" Amon smiled forcedly.

"Average. I'm going to come straight out with it, Amon. I need more money."

"More money? You always need more money. I swear, Oskar, you spend more than you actually earn at that blasted factory. I hope all those damned Jew workers are worth it for you." Amon rolled his eyes. Of course Schindler wanted money. "What is it you want this money for, exactly? I have the whole of Plaszow to run. Something on this scale is hardly cheap."

"I know, I know. But I'm sure our takings from the factory will soar if we only invest a little more. Better machines and so on. You understand, don't you?" Oskar asked.

Amon nodded slowly. "You know business better than I do, Oskar. All I'm saying is this had better not go to waste. I hope they're all working as hard as you say."

"They're too scared to do anything else, aren't they? You need to stop coming in and shooting my workers, Amon. It disturbs production."

"You know what else disturbs production?" Amon lit a cigarette, irritated. "You are choosing useless Jew workers because you feel sorry for them. Now _that's_ bad for business, Oskar."

"I know what I'm doing. It's cheap labour, Amon.

"Not so cheap from my end."

"Of course it is. Labour's cheap. Life's cheap, here..."

"I'll do what I want, Oskar. I'm in charge here. I could close you down if I had half a mind to do so..."

"I know you could."

"There you go."

"Still. Half of them are too terrified to move for fear that you'll start gunning them down." Oskar frowned. "Even that girl of yours thinks that you're going to shoot her one of these days."

"Who, Helen? Don't be stupid. How would you know, anyway?"

"I spoke to her the other day. It seems she sees you kill people without a care and is practically crippled by the fear that she will be next."

"When did you speak to her? Don't interfere with my household and my servants, Oskar. What were you doing, talking to her? She's none of your concern!"

"I went down to that little hovel you've got her living in."

"What? You try my patience, Oskar." In fact, Amon was furious at Schindler's audacity at going to speak with the girl without him knowing, at Schindler being alone with Helen. Jealous that she felt she could _talk_ with him.

"I'll bet."

"And I wouldn't shoot her. Probably I should..." Amon added in a low undertone.

"That's what I told her. And it's true, isn't it? You shoot these people because they mean nothing to you. But she does, doesn't she?" Oskar spoke calmly – he spoke as if it was a matter of fact, not just his own speculation.

"She's a good servant."

"No doubt."

"Why would I hurt her?"

"Why not? You've done so already. Why would you stop? You said it yourself – she's just a Jew, after all..."

"Not the point. I've no reason to shoot her, not like the others."

"Exactly. She isn't just another nameless prisoner to you."

"Well, no." Amon stubbed out his cigarette on the ashtray in front of him.

"She's given up hope, you know. She said it herself. She has "accepted her sufferings", as she puts it. She said, "One day, he will kill me." She's just a girl, Amon. She's seen far too much for one so young."

"Well, she's wrong. I wouldn't do that to her. God knows I probably should."

"You're a fool, Amon."

"I'm not a fool! There's no need to look so damned pleased with yourself. Problems will be caused by your interfering."

"We'll see. You cause your own problems – you don't need my help."

"Oskar, I don't need your advice. I will do what I want."

"How's that working put for you so far?"

"Fine. Trouble follows you, Oskar. You'd do well not to bring it near me."

"Like yesterday. I understand how that could have been awkward for you. It just goes to show, actions speak louder than words, Amon..."

"You're not funny."

"No? Perhaps I only amuse myself then. You need to lighten up. Perhaps the excessive drinking is getting to you, Amon."

"Are we finished?" Amon asked. "Because truth be told, I am quite tired of you. You can have the money, but for God's sake, don't waste it on improving the barracks or some ridiculous sentimental idea."

"Sentimental ideas... You'd know..."

"What?"

Nothing, nothing." Oskar said. Amon really hoped he wouldn't press the subject of the events of the previous day.

"You know, your temper will be the end of you, Amon."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't have a temper... What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about that temper which makes you break things and knock maids over."

"Damn you, Schindler! No harm was done."

"You made sure of that."

"What?"

"I saw, Amon. I'm not an idiot."

"Well, you're doing a very good impression of one then."

"You be careful, Amon. I can't see any good will come of this."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Oskar."

"Of course I don't... You're quite right. How's Ruth? She hardly comes to the factory anymore. I think she's found another job."

"Oh, she's just fine, I expect. I haven't seen her since the party the other night. I don't have any particular wish to either. And Ingrid? Or is it Klonowska now? Never mind Emilie... I lose track of your girls, Oskar."

"They're all well, to my knowledge. Emilie says she might visit at some point."

"How nice for you. You'll have to kick all the others out before she arrives though."

"You wait. It's not easy being married. But at least Emilie doesn't make a fuss. She's remarkably good-natured about it all, really."

"I'm never getting married. Too much hassle, too much responsibility. When you marry, people expect you to become... dignified."

Oskar chuckled. "Never say never, my friend."

"Marriage makes you boring."

"Thanks very much."

"No, no, I don't mean you, I mean people, in general."

"I'm sure you do."

Amon leant over his desk and wrote a cheque for the amount of money Schindler wanted. It wasn't his own money, of course, but came from the camp accounts.

"I really hope this is worth it for you. \send that Jew clerk of yours in tomorrow – I want to look over the accounts."

"Tomorrow is Saturday, Amon."

Amon rolled his eyes. "So it is. But the camp runs every day, Oskar. You know that. Send him anyway."

"Fine, fine. But I want whichever workers you come into contact with back in one piece. Can't afford the losses these days."

Schindler took the cheque and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"Everything's a bloody joke for you, isn't it?" said Amon, irritated.

"Not everything." Schindler got up to leave. As he was walking out of the door, Amon called after him.

"And stop interfering with my staff!"

Schindler raised an eyebrow. "You stop interfering with mine. And sort your own problems out, so I won't need to."

"What do you mean by that?" Amon said, angrily. He stood up. "What are you saying?"

"Goodbye, Amon. Thanks for your help. See you at the party tomorrow." Schindler ignored Amon's question, and closed the door behind him, leaving Amon alone in the study.

Amon sat back down at his desk. Why was it that every time he spoke to Schindler recently, he ended up inwardly cursing the other man not only for his well meaning but interfering actions, but also for his apparent wisdom?

And Amon had completely forgotten about that damned party. He'd offered to organise it – it was Schindler's birthday the next day. They were the same age – but thinking of Schindler's birthday, a few months before his own, only reminded Amon of the fact that he was getting older, much older than...

No, he admonished himself. Don't even consider it.

It was true that Schindler was more composed, less impulsive than Amon himself. Amon didn't like to admit it, but he respected the other man for his perseverance, his ability with words, and his skill in making people trust him. Even _she_ trusted him.

However, it was a little unsettling to see that Oskar Schindler knew him so well. Knew what made him angry – he was the only one who really understood how Amon thought.

That, thought Amon, is going to cause problems some day. And it'll probably be sooner rather than later...

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><p>Oskar was still smiling to himself as he left Goeth's house. He was so easy to wind up, thought Oskar. Perhaps it was unwise to rile a man who funded practically his whole operation, but Oskar knew Goeth wouldn't shut him down because of a few comments. But the whole thing was a tricky business. It wasn't even as if the factory brought in much income.<p>

Originally it had, indeed, been a business enterprise. But it had become so much more. People thanked him all the time, constantly told him he was doing a good thing, but Oskar wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it up. He employed the elderly and the young, sparing the weak from a bullet to the head or a sure trip to the gas chambers of Auschwitz.

Oskar, unbeknownst to most, funded some of the operation with his own money, as the money he was given could only stretch so far, and it wasn't enough to pay for all the expenses of maintaining the factory, as well as the workers.

Nonetheless, although Goeth probably had his suspicions about Oskar's motivations, he had not yet made any move to stop him. He had, in actual fact, been quite accommodating in that he had allowed Oskar to create the Emalia sub-complex and keep it running.

And usually, Goeth didn't come to the factory. Occasionally he would come and carry out an inspection, but he didn't much enjoy being surrounded by all Schindler's pity cases, no doubt. But sometimes he would, as he had the previous day, quite unexpectedly kill a worker without a second thought.

That's what you get, Oskar, he thought to himself. Rile a man like Amon Goeth, and there are bound to be consequences. And he won't take it out on you; he'll take it out on the workers, the prisoners, and the helpless. That's the way he is. He sees no reason why he shouldn't behave the way he does. He is reckless because he can be, because nobody would ever dare to tell him otherwise.

Oskar sighed inwardly. Of course he'd never presume to tell Amon how to run his camp, but he did wish he wasn't so cruel at times, for it was true, much of the time, that it was sport to him. Oskar supposed that he was the closest thing Amon had to a friend. The two of them, they really were quite similar. Had he been different, had his circumstances been other than they were, Oskar thought, he may well have become like Amon. But Amon had his own, unique problems...

He did know him well – they understood each other. And it was for that reason that Oskar knew he could tell Amon things other people wouldn't tell him, and on top of that, Oskar saw things. He saw Amon digging himself into a hole which would be hard to get out of, very difficult indeed.

It wasn't that Oskar disapproved, more that he could see a number of possible outcomes for the unfortunate situation which had arisen, none of them particularly pleasant for anyone involved.

Right then, Oskar could see how the other man, in typical Amon fashion, wanted the one thing that, by his own principles and twisted morals, he could never have. But when had not being able to do something ever stopped Amon?

Ever since he'd spoken to Helen, Oskar had planned to save her – save her from being trapped there for however much longer it would be... And now, Oskar, with Stern's assistance, was compiling a list. For he wanted to return to Brinnlitz, his hometown in Czechoslovakia, to places he knew, to Emilie.

And he wanted to take the factory with him. At least until the end of the war. And the more people who could be saved, the better. Even those who lived in the relative safety of the Emalia camp were in danger here.

So he planned to relocate the factory to Brinnlitz, along with all the "Schindlerjuden", as they were calling themselves. It made Oskar a little uncomfortable. It wasn't as if he was doing particularly good things, but by being one of the few who did not do particularly _bad_ things, he became something of a saviour in the eyes of many.

And the poor girl had seemed so resigned to what she thought was an inescapable fate. Oskar still thought Amon wouldn't shoot her. He wouldn't be able to do it, despite his arguments with Oskar, and probably with himself.

Nonetheless, she'd be happier at Brinnlitz, Oskar was sure of it.

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><p><strong>Please review! I'll update again soon :)<strong>

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	7. Helen's Memories

**Hello everyone! I have already typed another chapter! I hope you all like it - please leave me a review to let me know what you think of this new chapter.**

**Notes: **

**1. The first German words spoken by the guard and the Polish translation means "Women here, men there!" **

**2. The second bit which Helen overhears the guards saying means "Children, 14 and under should go to Auschwitz II, and also the elderly. The others will stay here, understand? If they are in poor health, take them to Birkenau."**

**3. Yes, the party mentioned here is the one shown in the film. It is relevant to the plot, and will come up in the next chapter. To clarify, Amon and Oskar are the same age, with Oskar being older by a couple of months.**

**P.S. Thanks for all the positive reviews. :) To the person who said they were offended, a) read the disclaimers, and b) I can't please everyone. If you are offended, you should stop reading "Schindler's List" fanfiction.**

**Disclaimer - Based on film portrayals, no offence intended!**

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><p>Helen left the house via the back door, as she usually did. It was sweltering hot in the kitchen, but there was a gentle breeze outside. Helen could feel her black dress sticking to her back. As she leant against the brick wall of the villa, she could see around to the front, where Schindler's car was parked.<p>

She saw him come out of the house towards his car. The man spotted her, and raised a hand in greeting, He seemed to realise something, and closed the car door he'd just opened and came through the low gate at the side of the house towards her.

Helen was a bit nervous at being seen not doing any work, but surely he wouldn't say anything – it was so hot, and it wasn't as if there was anything in particular she had to get done.

"Helen."

"Morgen, Herr Schindler."

"Hot, isn't it?" said Schindler. Helen nodded. Schindler tilted his head to one side, considering her. He reached out and touched her cheek gently, the one with the bruise, before looking down at the powder which had come off onto his hand.

"Powder, Helen? Where did you get that, I wonder?" Schindler asked.

Helen turned away, blushing. She'd forgotten about the powder she was wearing, had forgotten that Schindler had seen her the day before with a fresh bruise over half of her face, a bruise which could not have faded in a day.

Schindler was still looking at her expectantly. "Helen?"

"Yes... I think the Kommandant left it for me yesterday." Helen bit her lip nervously, but Schindler only raised his eyebrow in a somewhat amused fashion.

"I thought so. Interesting." Helen must have looked puzzled, because Schindler smiled reassuringly at her. "Don't worry, Helen. Everything is going to be alright, I'm sure. See you soon." He turned and left, getting into his black car and driving away, waving at her as he left. Helen hesitated before waving back politely.

She liked Schindler. He wasn't cruel to anyone, he helped people, and he spoke to her like she mattered.

Helen watched the car disappear into the distance. The sun was still high in the sky – the day was not even halfway over. And she was sure that there was still work to be done. There was always more work to be found. Reluctantly, Helen turned and went back into the house. The stove was on in the kitchen, and it was ridiculously hot in there.

There was a basket of folded washing in the corner of the kitchen which needed to be put away. Helen took it out into the hall, simply for something to do which wasn't in the kitchen. She was sweating, and her usually neat hair was frizzing out slightly from the heat.

She carried the basket up the stairs and put it in front of the Kommandant's room. She would only go in and tidy things when he wasn't in the house, and seeing as Schindler had just left, she assumed that the Kommandant would still be in his study.

Helen had only just put the basket down when she heard booted footsteps on the stairs. Helen stepped quickly to the side of the landing and tried very hard not to be noticed. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.

"Oh. What are you doing here?" asked the Kommandant when he saw Helen by the stairs.

"Washing, Herr Kommandant." Helen gestured to the basket she'd left by his door.

"Ja. Good. Okay. I can see you found the powder then." He said, almost as an afterthought.

"Yes, sir." Helen said quietly. She paused. "...Thank you."

"It's fine. You can go." He turned to go into his room, and Helen hurried carefully down the stairs.

The Kommandant looked somewhat troubled, thought Helen. Perhaps an altercation with Schindler? The two of them were usually on good terms, but Helen supposed there would always be conflict where Plaszow and Emalia were concerned. There seemed to be no end to the conflicts taking place at that moment, and not only in the camp.

Back in the kitchen, Helen sat down at the small wooden table, only to get up again to push the already ajar window open as far as it would go, to let some cooler air in. She sat back down, nothing left to do except watch the stove.

She ended up, as she often did, thinking about her family. Helen was born in Katowice, a major Polish city not far from Krakow, only a couple of hours by train, but she'd lived in Krakow for as long as she could remember. It was her childhood – she knew the city well, and all her memories of her younger years took her back to the open squares, the towers, and the winding side streets of the walled town.

Helen had been the second-eldest child of four. Her older brother was married, and had moved out to Warsaw when he was nineteen years old, three years ago, and had remained there ever since. He visited occasionally, but Helen herself had never gone to the capital city, preferring to stay in the relative safety of a place she knew well.

Helen also had two sisters, Elie and Marta, who were four and five years younger than her respectively, so now they'd be fourteen and thirteen years old. Helen's father was a watchmaker, and had owned a small shop in Krakow before they'd been relocated to the ghetto.

They'd all had to leave their home without warning. Helen could remember that day well, better than she'd have wanted to. They took as many of their possessions as they could carry. Helen's mother had insisted on taking their best set of cooking pots to use in their new home. They hadn't known, at that point, that they'd be sharing a square room with two other families in a squalid ghetto.

Oh, they got by – Helen's family was by no means particularly well off, but as a result of her father's steady trade and income, they had lived in relative comfort before they were relocated, at least compared to many people.

They had enough money to buy food, and this was a slight comfort to them in the ghetto. It was not uncommon to see the emaciated bodies of children or the elderly who had not had the will or the means to survive in the ghetto, lying where they fell in the dirty streets.

The liquidation of the ghetto in March of that year had been by far the worst day of Helen's life.

The whole family had been sitting in the main room of the space they'd been assigned with another family, when they began to hear shouts and gunfire. They knew immediately that they were in danger. Soldiers, men in brown shirts with the red Nazi band on their arms came into the house, barking orders to get into the street and shooting at random.

Many people were hit, and still, Helen could hardly believe what she was seeing. As they were leaving the house, not even being allowed to collect their few belongings, Helen's father was shot in the back. He died within the minute, and Helen remembered her sisters crying, whilst she herself was numb with shock.

Their mother hadn't wanted to leave him, had cried and begged to the point where Helen had had to try and pull her away from his broken body. But still she wouldn't come, and the brown-shirts were shouting and people were crying out in pain and despair.

They'd killed her mother then too, without consideration or mercy. Helen herself did not cry. Not then. The tears came later. Her motions had been almost mechanical as she'd pulled her now unresisting sisters into the street behind her.

They'd been crowded into the square, lined up and loaded into trucks like cattle. In the space of less than five minutes, Helen had lost half of her family.

She'd clutched her sisters' hands so tightly that they must have lost blood circulation to their fingers. As they were boarding the trucks, Helen had seen the ever-growing piles of bodies at the sides of the roads, the drab grey ghetto spotted with puddles of blood.

It was a massacre. At the side of the road, there was a small group of men wearing long brown coats. They had guns and lists, paper sheets they were constantly writing on.

Helen remembered that one of them wore a leather coat, held the leads of two vicious-looking dogs, and looked to be in charge of the operation. He wasn't taking part in the rounding up of the inhabitants of the ghetto, instead watching with something like distaste in his eyes.

He was tall and fair, and his eyes were an icy blue that betrayed no hint of emotion, no flicker of compassion for the death surrounding him. That had been Helen's first glimpse of her future employer, Hauptsturmführer Amon Goeth, though obviously Helen could not, at that moment, have predicted what was to come.

The truck had been locked, and along with dozens of other terrified people, some of them their friends, their neighbours, Helen and her sisters held each other for the whole journey to the Plaszow Work Camp, their intended destination. Helen had known right then that she had a responsibility now, that she was the eldest, and therefore had a duty to look after her sisters.

Briefly, Helen had wondered if her brother was safe in Warsaw with his own family, or if he'd been subjected to a similar ordeal. But the worst was yet to come. At that point, Helen and her sisters were orphans, but they had each other.

When they arrived at Plaszow, and it was not a long journey, they had to stand in another long line.

"Frauen hier, Männer da!" the soldiers had shouted. Helen spoke good German – it was still taught in some schools in Poland, and Helen had studied it for a few years previously – she was close enough to fluent to pass for a native German speaker if she'd ever needed to.

A short man was translating the orders to Polish anyway. He was wearing civilian clothes, and he didn't look like a soldier. "Tu kobiety, mężczyźni tam!" And so the wives were separated from their husbands, parents from their children. Helen could hear some of the soldiers conferring.

"Kinder, vierzehn Jahre alt und unter sollen nach Auschwitz Zwei fahren, und auch die ältere Leute. Die anderen werden hier bleiben, verstehst du? Wenn sie die schlechte Gesundheit haben, nehmen Sie ihnen nach Birkenau."

And so with a gesture of his hand, and after asking their ages, a senior officer sent Helen's sisters to one side and Helen to the other. Helen went completely cold, and there was a moment of blind panic. Everyone had heard of Auschwitz, but Helen had rarely considered what it was that actually _happened_ there... Another work camp, she assumed.

She hugged her sisters tightly and whispered to them both. "You're going somewhere, somewhere else, but you'll stay together. Promise me you'll look after each other, you need to be brave now, for Mama and Papa wouldn't want you to cry. I'll find you. I'll come and find you as soon as I can." She had tried to smile through the tears which were threatening to overwhelm her.

Her sisters had promised, tearfully, and went to stand in the line, hand in hand. Helen saw a girl she knew in her own line, Mila Pfefferberg, who had lived opposite them in the ghetto with her husband. Helen had stood next to Mila as they were herded towards a large wooden building.

Helen looked over her shoulder, catching a last glimpse of them being ushered roughly into a train carriage with some other children. She'd hoped fervently that they'd be alright, and that they'd meet again.

She had stuck with Mila, a kind girl of twenty years who had been torn away from her husband, Poldek, by the guards who forced him into another line. But he was in the same place, only with the men.

Helen stayed with Mila as they were registered, when they were told that it was a work camp and that they'd begin work the next day, and when they were locked in the wooden barrack with the hard wooden bunks. They held each other, offering comfort where they could, both numb with cold and fear.

The next couple of weeks had passed in a blur of hard work and tears, until that bitterly cold day when she'd faced the Herr Kommandant of Plaszow for the second time.

She remembered being scared of him, terribly scared, being unsure of what to do when he asked who had domestic experience. She thought it better not to lie – she'd not, as some of the other women had, ever been a maid or anything like that back in Krakow. She'd only ever cooked for fun before, to help her parents. No, Helen did not really have any domestic experience. She was young, had only turned eighteen in February, and had been the only one who didn't raise her hand. She'd thought she was safe.

Helen's shock was immense when the Kommandant had decided that no, he didn't want "someone else's maid", as he put it, when he'd chosen her. Her hands had shaken with cold, and her voice had been so quiet that she'd had to repeat her name three times before he finally heard her. As she'd stepped forward, he'd laughed quietly, said something about not wanting to give her his cold, holding a handkerchief to his face.

He had seen her shivering, touched her shaking hands before curtly calling to one of the guards as the other women ran back to their work stations, grateful for what they saw as a narrow escape.

Even then, looking at him had made her uncomfortable; his icy blue eyes boring into hers had always filled her with unease. And, as she quickly found out, not without good reason. Moments later, she'd witnessed the fast, senseless killing of Diana Reiter, the foreman of construction, for daring to disagree with a guard. Helen, even now, remembered the incident like it was yesterday.

"Unterscharführer?" the Kommandant had said. "Shoot her." There was barely any inflection in his voice; it was a matter-of-fact order which took even the other man by surprise. The poor woman had been terrified.

"Herr Kommandant, I am only doing my job!"

"Ja, I'm doing mine." He replied shortly. He turned to the other man. "Shoot her here, on my authority."

"It will take more than that." the woman had said, her voice wavering, but nonetheless brave in the face of death.

"I'm sure you are right." The Kommandant had replied. A quick gesture, and it was over, another life over, another life wasted. "Tear it down and rebuild it, as she said." continued the Kommandant, without a care for the woman whose death he'd so callously ordered.

That was the same man who still caused death on a daily, if not hourly basis, a man who would beat his maid for nothing, not even the barest hint of a misdemeanour on her part.

But it was hardly the same man who would then return, who would watch her sleep, who would apologize and give her makeup to cover the bruises, was it? Not the same man who would catch her to stop her falling, who would ask her to sit down and talk to her like an equal, even thank her?

He'd not had Diana Reiter killed because she was wrong, but because he didn't like her attitude, because he saw her as sub-human, something to be despised. Simply because she'd meant less than nothing to him. Maybe, thought Helen, just maybe Schindler could be right after all.

With a jolt, Helen emerged from her memories back into the heat of the kitchen, the time having passed quickly as she'd sat there, alone, remembering all she used to be and all she'd lost.

Usually, Helen tried not to think about her family, but at times when she had nothing to occupy her hands or her mind; she'd find herself crying silently for her parents and her siblings. She had no idea if she'd ever see Elie and Marta again, no way of knowing if they were even alive or where they were. She didn't know much about KL Auschwitz, or Oswiecim as it was called in Polish, except that it was a camp, the largest in existence.

Perhaps she'd see them again one day. Helen never prayed, not anymore. She'd more or less lost faith in any God when her family was torn away from her. It was not as if her faith was permitted here, in any case, thought Helen. It didn't bother her – she'd left nearly every remnant of her old life behind, so it was no surprise that her faith had also been lost.

Helen looked out of the window, where the sun was starting to set. She'd been at the table longer than she'd intended. When she'd last checked the clock, it had been around midday. It was now after five in the afternoon.

It was Friday. The end of the week. This weekend would be an exception, but normally Helen did not have much work to do at the weekend. That was not, of course, the case when it came to the prisoners of the camp, as they had to work around ten hours a day regardless of the day of the week or time of the year.

But at the Kommandant's house, very little serious business went on over the weekend. It was mostly social gatherings and dinners. Usually Ruth Kalder, who was the Kommandant's girlfriend, to use the term quite loosely, would stay at the house. She was never particularly unkind to the prisoners or servants, on the rare occasions she came into contact with them, but she was a proud, haughty woman and therefore rarely associated with those she considered beneath her.

She used to be at the house most days, but during the last few months her presence had become a rare occurrence. Helen knew that Miss Kalder had, at one point, been employed as one of Schindler's secretaries, along with another civilian girl called Klonowska. It was common knowledge that Schindler was intimate with this other girl, as well as having several other mistresses ranging from Ingrid, a well known politician's daughter, to Marelle, who worked in a clothes shop near the factory.

Nobody could say that Schindler made any effort to be discreet when it came to his personal affairs. He would attend parties on consecutive nights with a different girl on his arm each time. Due to her work at the Red House and due to Schindler's usual easy camaraderie with the Kommandant, Helen had come into contact with more or less all of these women at some point or another.

However, she had never met Schindler's wife. She must have been very kind and tolerant to put up with her husband's affairs, Helen thought. The other staff at the house who knew Emilie, as she was called, said she lived in Brinnlitz, Schindler's home town, but that the couple did not often meet, usually only once every few months. They also said she was exceedingly beautiful as well as good and generous even to the workers and so-called "undesirables".

From all this, Helen could not understand why Schindler would be unfaithful to such a woman. Schindler was simply a man who got bored easily, she supposed.

Tomorrow, there was to be a party, as it was Schindler's birthday. Helen didn't know how old he was, she presumed he and the Kommandant were around the same age, although Schindler seemed wiser, and often appeared older to her. The Kommandant was throwing a party for him. Helen had seen the guest list, and it was extensive.

At least 50 people were attending, quite an amount for the house to hold, large though it was. Some extra help was being brought in, in addition to the usual staff, probably some of the other girls from the camp who did have some domestic experience. Evidently not enough experience to have "annoying habits" though.

Shamelessly, Schindler had asked both Ingrid and Klonowska to attend. Helen knew that the Emalia workers had made a cake in the factory kitchens, a surprise for Schindler. How they'd managed it, Helen didn't know. A small child as well as an older girl had been chosen to take it into the party. Helen did wonder who'd managed to persuade the Kommandant to allow them in.

Unsurprisingly, Frau Schindler was not going to attend the event. The preparations had been going on for a few days – the table was polished, along with all the other surfaces and cabinets, the vast amount of crockery and cutlery washed several times over, the decorations were made and the food was nearly finished.

And there was a lot of food. It was Helen who had been told to prepare it all, and she knew she'd be glad when it was all over. It was certainly a lot of work. Helen thought she'd probably also be helping in the main house during the party. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell nowadays what she ought to be doing at different times. Her jobs changed every day, depending on who was around and what was going on. Helen caught sight of the large, white tablecloth which was folded on the chair next to her. That had to be ironed. Helen sighed, and got up to finish off the day's work.

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><p><strong>Hope it was alright! A bit Helen's-POV-centric, next chapter will be mainly from Amon's POV. Please review! If you could give a slightly in-depth review, with or without constructive criticism, I would be... grateful.<strong>

**x the-valkyrie-writes**


	8. The Party

**Hello! Things have been mad, sorry that I haven't updated for a while. I hope you like this chapter. Please, please, please leave me a slightly longer review telling me what you like/don't like about it - I'd be very grateful.**

**Disclaimer - I don't mean any offence by writing this, all characters are based on film portrayals in "Schindler's List".**

**NB: "untermensch" (sub-human), "lebensunwert" (unworthy of life)**

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><p>Amon, hearing the doorbell ring, straightened his jacket and walked briskly down the stairs. Only moments earlier he'd hung up the phone on a whining Majola, who was demanding to know why she hadn't been invited. He couldn't be bothered to deal with her right then. He was the host, and therefore had to appear amicable and friendly. This was never usually a problem, but the now aborted conversation with Ruth had soured his mood, and he had to make an effort not to scowl.<p>

Amon heard the front door open. It was Schindler. "Oskar. You shouldn't arrive early for your own party!" Amon smiled. He shook hands with the other man, who laughed.

"That's strange, because I'm usually late everywhere. Thank you for this, Amon." Oskar grinned. Amon knew Oskar couldn't refuse a party, not when drinking and celebration was involved.

Ingrid was with him, Amon noted. Klonowska, or whichever of his other conquests Oskar had invited, must be coming later on. The doorbell rang again, and this time it was a group of guests, all arriving together. Oskar and Amon remained in the hall to greet them. Amon noticed, soon after the first guests came in, that Helen was answering the doors. He went over to where she was standing.

"Helen, what are you doing?" he said, in a low voice.

She jumped. "Sir?"

"Go in the other room and serve drinks, would you?" Amon said curtly. Helen nodded and went into the main room. All the servants present that evening were wearing the uniform set aside for formal events, neatly pressed white shirts and black trousers for the men, long-sleeved black dresses with white aprons for the women.

Only the best, neatest and most attractive servants had been chosen to work that night – a good impression had to be given to all the guests, after all. The surplus workers that night were mostly women from Schindler's camp. All the factory workers had it a little better, so at least they were better kept than most of the others. They had, obviously, been thoroughly disinfected and instructed on how to behave. Well, thought Amon, they're still Jews, but that couldn't be helped. At least they were clean, their hair washed, and they all wore the same uniform. None of them wore the star that evening, Amon had made sure of it, as it would have looked bad to have the sign of the Jews being worn by the staff at such a special event.

They usually wore the star – they wore it on their clothes, as there wasn't a uniform for the prisoners of Plaszow; the camp wasn't important enough for that, and funds weren't sufficient for it. Why waste the money anyway? Even the ones who worked in the house wore it.

Except Helen. Amon had made it clear from the very beginning that she was not to wear the star. He didn't quite understand why. Perhaps it was that he didn't want people to see that his cook, his best servant, was a Jew. Or perhaps, he considered, he himself wanted to forget, if only for a few moments, that Helen was, in fact, Jewish. To pretend that she was just another pretty girl. That she wasn't filth; she wasn't contaminated.

At that moment, watching her pass on her way to the other room, Amon could not bring himself to apply those words to Helen. But then, he never could. Not even in the throes of his anger, the moments when he raged at her for the tiniest reason, never could he think it. It was just not true. She was _different_. She has to know that it isn't just the marks of my hate she wears like distorted flowers on her face, he told himself, but thankfully they are covered now.

For him, she was everything he wasn't, everything he couldn't possibly deserve. She was pure, kind, the physical embodiment of such goodness that had it been anyone else, it would have been bordering on sickening. But Helen was not anyone else, and it was this which made her a problem. Even in Amon's own head, it made little sense.

He'd never seen her act unkindly, never heard her complain. What was it Schindler had said? "She has "accepted her sufferings"". She offered no resistance, just a quiet, nearly imperceptible, barely there reproach for his cruelty. And regardless, she obeyed him anyway. Well, she had to, of course, what else could she do? She had no other option, not if she wanted to live. Did she?

But there was something... Amon couldn't pin it down, couldn't name what it was that unnerved him.

"Accepted her sufferings..."

Sufferings he had caused, no doubt. However, it was true, what he'd told Schindler. He would like to think he would not, could not, and could never kill Helen. He knew he probably should, but nonetheless, the idea was repellent to him. And he did, this time, feel some guilt playing on his conscience, for the most recent beating he'd given her. She had taken all the blows in silence, hadn't even cried. Somehow, her resignation and determination not to cry out only irked him further.

Sometimes Amon forgot how young Helen really was. Only eighteen years old, he remembered. Her demeanour was that of someone much older than her, of someone who had aged too quickly due to the horrors they have witnessed.

Amon could remember being eighteen. He was still in Austria then, still a boy really, a boy playing at being a man in a soldier's outfit. Now, thirteen years later, he'd seen and done much more than he'd ever expected to. That, at least, he knew he could never revoke. But he still felt, at times, as foolish as he'd been as a young man, though he rarely made mistakes now. Or perhaps he made mistakes of a graver nature.

Perhaps employing Helen had been a mistake. He... doubted himself. Never before had he doubted his allegiance to the party, to the Führer, to the morals he'd come to see as his own. Never before felt such a desire to do what he himself wanted, to defy the rules he'd made for himself. Bound by what was expected of him, Amon knew he could never act on whatever it was that he was feeling.

Amon was still a little angry at Schindler for his going to speak with Helen. How dare he? Amon looked at Schindler greeting people with his usual charismatic charm, and imagined him smiling at Helen in the same way, alone with her, comforting her. Something he, Amon, could never do. Where he'd rather give her comfort, he could only give her pain and cruelty.

Such was his dilemma – he could only hurt her. He was also angry that she felt she could talk to Schindler about her problems, but not to him. Wasn't Schindler as bad as anyone – only out to make money, wasn't he in the Party like everyone else? But of course, she couldn't talk to him, for he was the primary cause of her suffering, of her pain, of her shame.

He really did hate her at times, cursed her for bewitching him, for making him think treacherous things. He knew it was stupid, and his confusion was hardly her fault, but sometimes he felt he needed someone to blame. He didn't want to believe that his feelings, urges, desires came only from within himself, from the recesses of his own mind, not from some witchcraft or spell. For it was a weakness, what he felt, and a dangerous one at that.

Amon snapped back to reality when Schindler said something to him. "What?" Amon said.

"I said, all the guests are here. And look, they came with gifts!" True enough, there was a small pile of wrapped boxes to their left – it was most likely that many of them contained alcohol; they all knew what Schindler liked.

For all his faults, it was true that Amon considered Oskar to be a good friend of his. An infuriating one, at times, but a friend nonetheless.

"We should go in. It is your party, after all. Happy Birthday, Oskar." Amon said, pushing all his doubts and jealousies to the back of his mind. The two men shook hands and went into the main room where the guests were gathered.

Much of that evening consisted of good wine and good food, jokes and conversation, like most of the social gatherings which took place at Amon's house.

There came a moment, around an hour after the start of the party, when Amon noticed a couple of the younger, less experienced SS officers already slightly drunk, making rather lewd comments about the maids who were serving, Helen included. He let this go, reasoning that they were simply a bit boisterous from the drinking. Unusually, Amon had only had one small glass of wine, and so wasn't drunk at all.

When this escalated to the point where one of the young men actually had the audacity to wolf-whistle when Helen walked by with a tray of drinks, Amon had had enough. He cleared his throat, glaring at the officers, and beckoned Helen over to him. Quietly, away from the noise of the party, he spoke to her.

"Helen, leave. Your work tonight is finished."

"But Herr Kommandant, you asked me to serve drinks, so I am doing that, and it is only nine o'clock..."

"Don't argue with me! You will leave now. I don't care where you go, but your work tonight is done. Do you understand?" His voice rose menacingly.

Helen flushed, embarrassed and scared. "Yes, of course, Herr Kommandant." She turned away and left in the direction of the kitchen, taking off her apron as she went.

Amon strode back into the main room. One of the young officers gave him a wary look. Amon ignored him and went over to Schindler, who was speaking to Ingrid and Klonowska. Surprisingly, the two women got on well, and there was no ill feeling between the two of them.

The room went quiet as a plainly dressed but attractive young woman entered the room, behind a small girl carrying a cake. This, Amon assumed, was some sort of gesture from the workers. Yes, the girl explained that the workers had made it, and that they wished Herr Schindler a happy 36th birthday.

Schindler thanked them, kissing the little girl on the forehead, and then he did something quite unexpected. Oskar Schindler kissed the older Jewish girl full on the mouth, a sustained kiss which shocked everyone present and created an air of awkwardness in the room.

"Tell them "thank you" from me." said Schindler, smiling.

The girls left quickly, and after the initial surprise and distasteful glances, most people chose to ignore Schindler's actions and went on as if nothing had happened. Oskar was laughing about something, but Amon couldn't even try to join in. In his mind, the thoughts were raging.

A mist of anger was forming in front of his eyes. How dare Schindler kiss a Jewish girl, a worker, a prisoner in Amon's own home? After all his insinuations and his warnings, he'd gone and committed a punishable offence. After all his mocking of Amon, his comments and smirks, he'd then flouted the main rule they had to follow. Jews are vermin, he thought. They are "untermensch", they are "lebensunwert".

And Oskar had kissed one! Well, Amon himself had once nearly done the same thing, but the point was, he hadn't, had caught himself in time to prevent himself from making a grave error which would have impacted more things than he cared to think about. He would never do it, especially not in front of witnesses!

Amon was highly annoyed, but shamefully, he was also jealous. He was jealous that Oskar Schindler had the courage to do something at a party, on front of others, which Amon had not been able to do even in a darkened room with nobody to judge him apart from his own conscience and the girl who was... his victim? That, Amon thought, is what she is. A victim.

It was alright to feel lust, wasn't it? As long as he did not act upon it, did not allow those desires to take a physical form, it would be alright. Lust, Amon told himself, was what he felt, all he felt. There was no deeper meaning, nothing emotional. For who could feel anything more than lust for a Jew? He should be disgusted with himself even for that.

He was lying, even to himself. It wasn't lust when he watched her flinch away from him and felt annoyed about it, when he found himself wishing he could hold her, just hold her in his arms and comfort her. Lust didn't make you feel protective of someone who you should hate.

Amon wished he had Oskar's confidence. If he was less concerned about his position, less concerned about what people would think of him, he'd be able to leave now. If he was half the man he wanted to be, he would go down to Helen's room, speak to her kindly, smile to put her at ease, put his arms around her and feel her heart beat against his chest. If things were different, he would kiss her. Not too hard, he wouldn't want to scare her, but gently. And she would not flinch.

But things were not different, and like as not, they never would be.

"Amon? Amon?" Oskar waved a hand in front of Amon's face.

"What?" snapped Amon.

"You look annoyed." Schindler raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"No, it's nothing. Don't worry." Amon shook his head.

"Lighten up, Amon. You only live once." Oskar grinned and took another glass of wine from a nearby tray.

"You've done a stupid thing, Oskar..." Amon warned him. Oskar shrugged, a if it couldn't possibly matter to him. It seemed that few things bothered Oskar Schindler, or at least that was how it appeared.

The rest of the night was a party like any other. Amon did drink then, his mind becoming more and more clouded as he drank more and more. The party finished in the early hours of the morning, and the guests eventually left. Amon waved them away with a handshake, a clap on the back, a shouted farewell. Once they were all gone, he was relieved, but he was alone again. As usual, he supposed.

Stumbling up the stairs, he soon collapsed into bed, falling into a heavy sleep.

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><p><strong>Thanks,<strong>

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	9. Decisions

**Hello everyone! Sorry it's been a while. Here's the next chapter.**

**I need some advice - when reviewing, can you tell me which of these two options you'd prefer. Reasons being, some dates and things have become a little confused, and things are going to change anyway, so I wondered if I should just go the whole way... Also, I love messing with people's heads. **

**_Option 1: War result is the same. I stay pretty much historically accurate with dates and canon timelines, but change the fates of some characters, so it is a little bit AU. (Duh.)_**

**_Option 2: Completely AU, Germany win the war, alternate future and therefore alternate fates for most characters._**

**_Option 3: A mix - you can suggest things here, maybe something like the war going on longer, and thus things will change to fit with the story._**

**I personally am leaning towards 2, but it depends on what you'd prefer to see. I think that if I do 2, it will make more sense, but that's just me. Let me know what you think.**

**On with the story!**

**P.S. You might have to change search criteria or save this in your favourites, because I'm putting it up to M now. Not because of anything in particular right now, but in general, and for future happenings.**

**Disclaimer - Based on film portrayals of characters in "Schindler's List", no offence intended.**

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><p>To Amon's surprise and intense annoyance, he was woken the next day by a phone call telling him that Oskar Schindler was in prison, arrested for "racial offences", or to put it plainly, for kissing a Jewish girl.<p>

"It's a bloody Sunday!" he said angrily, leaving the blank oblivion of sleep far behind him far too early, in his opinion. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep and leave Oskar to sort his own problems out.

But he saw Oskar as a friend, and friends help each other, do they not? Bail him out, said a little voice in Amon's head, for if your positions were reversed, you'd want him to do the same.

Amon knew he couldn't do anything like this without the backing of some people higher up than himself. Whatever Schindler's mistakes, he was a member of the Nazi Party, and therefore Amon felt obligated to make sure he didn't get sent down over a stupid mistake.

Julian Scherner was the SS and Police Leader of the Krakow area, and oversaw much of the work which Amon carried out. He came to the house often, and was quite friendly with both Amon and Oskar. He agreed to see some people about reducing Schindler's penalties, and then came to the Red House.

When Scherner arrived, Amon went with him into the study and spoke to him about how he thought Schindler had simply made a mistake, a stupid one, but a mistake nonetheless, caused by high spirits and a little too much alcohol. It had been his birthday, after all. He'd simply been in a good mood.

"You can't judge him for that, Julian... He's just a man." Amon sighed, leaning back in his chair. "And besides, it's hardly Oskar's own fault. They cast a spell on you, you know, the Jews. When you work closely with them, like I do, you see this. They have this power. It's like a virus. Some of my men are infected with this virus. They should be pitied, not punished. They should receive treatment because this is as real as typhus. I see it all the time," Amon raised an eyebrow.

He knew Scherner was as partial to good wine and merriment as anybody else, and was not too fussy where the money for it came from. "It's a matter of money? Hmm?"

"Perhaps..." Scherner replied, leaning forward. He nodded once, and Amon stood up.

"Thank you. I will see you receive something. I am grateful – I am sure Schindler will think the same."

Amon phoned a couple more people, and with Scherner's approval, finally phoned the prison with the request for Schindler's release. Eventually, Oskar Schindler was released with only a verbal slap to the wrist.

He came straight to the Red House – Scherner still hadn't left, and Oskar came in with a sheepish look on his face, and his suit neatly pressed as always – he seemed unaffected by his brief brush with the law.

"You are a fool, aren't you?" said Scherner, rolling his eyes. "We give you a Jewish girl at five marks a day, Oskar. You should kiss us, not them. God forbid you ever get a real taste for Jewish skirt, there's no future in it. They don't have a future. That's not just good old fashioned Jew hating talk. It's policy now."

Oskar nodded thoughtfully. The conversation continued in this vein for some time, Scherner admonishing Schindler for his stupidity, and telling him that he hoped he wouldn't embarrass himself in the same way again, or there would be more serious consequences. Oskar agreed, seemingly unconcerned by the whole thing.

Amon, on the other hand, was still thinking about Scherner's words. When Amon had told the other man about some of his men's weakness for the pretty girls in the camp, he had realised how much his words reflected his own situation.

They don't have a future. Amon knew it should be true, but he couldn't help but hope that he was different, as not being affected by the rules which applied to everyone else. But he found no way to deny the impossibilities of what he was dangerously close to embarking on. You can never have a future with her, it just isn't possible, he thought to himself.

But the immediate situation was resolved, and nothing had changed, other than perhaps the system was a little more suspicious of Oskar Schindler and his motives than before.

To Amon's knowledge, Schindler went straight home. Amon had phoned Oskar to inform him that he was an idiot and that he owed Amon several favours for ruining his Sunday. Oskar took all this in good humour, thanked Amon and hung up the phone.

How he can laugh about something like this, wondered Amon. He was tolerant of most of Oskar's schemes because they usually brought in money, but this sort of thing could land Schindler in considerable amounts of trouble with important people, which others wouldn't always be able to extricate him from.

At least, thought Amon, I have the rest of the day and nothing in particular to worry about. No business on a Sunday. Nonetheless, Amon could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. Brilliant. What a waste of a morning, he thought.

Amon went to the dining room. Everything from the party the previous night had been cleaned up already, and the workers who'd been brought in to help were back at the camp.

That day's newspaper was on the table. Amon went in to sit down, put his gun on the table and took his jacket off, hanging it over the back of one of the chairs. One of the dogs trotted into the room, growling. One of his dogs was a German shepherd, but this one was a German Pinscher. They were both trained as guard dogs which would tear someone apart as soon as look at them. The dogs had killed and maimed many prisoners within the camp.

"What? Shut up!" Amon snapped at the dog. They growled at anyone except Amon, really. Prisoners, other SS men, the servants. Amon soon realised why the dog was growling. Of course, the dogs would not attack without the order from Amon, but they did make most people uneasy.

There was a timid knock at the door. Amon looked up from the paper; fully intending to shout at whomever it was that had dared to disturb him again. However, the person at the door was not an irritating SS messenger, as he'd expected. It was Helen, carrying a small bag.

"Herr Kommandant? It is one o'clock..." she said, quietly, her very demeanour seeming to apologise for her presence there.

Amon had forgotten that Helen had a dual role as maid and manicurist on Sundays. One or another of the girls from the camp used to come and do it, but they were all too scared of him really, and therefore did quite a poor job more often than not.

So every Sunday, at one o'clock, Amon would read the paper, or look over letters and paperwork whilst Helen filed his nails.

He saw Helen cast a nervous glance at the dog in the corner of the room, which was eyeing her distrustfully. "Yes, well, come in then." Amon said, looking back at the paper. He put it down on the table in front of him and gestured to the chair on his left.

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><p>Helen entered the room, doing her best to ignore the savage-looking dog which was watching her. It had always scared her, as she'd seen those dogs rip people apart on more than one occasion. She could see the Kommandant's gun lying in the table, which unnerved her even more. The gun was always there, between them. She'd asked him about it once, soon after she'd started working there. Like many things she'd said and done, she never would have dared to say it now.<p>

Luckily, he'd been in a good mood, and when she'd asked him why it was there, why he always had it within easy reach, even in his own home; he'd laughed, and said it was in case she ever scratched him. She still wasn't sure if he'd been joking. She thought probably not. He rarely did, with her. He'd laugh, but Helen knew that often, he meant every word.

She didn't think she'd ever seen him looking truly happy, she'd never heard him laugh in a way which wasn't predatory, never seen him smile genuinely or speak kindly in a way which wasn't laced with threatening undertones.

She sat down carefully where he'd indicated, turning the chair to face him. Light was streaming in from the large window behind him.

She took the nail files out of the bag, lining them up on the table. She picked up the same one she always used.

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><p>Amon watched as Helen took his left hand in both of hers and started to file his nails. Her hands were cold, strangely so, he noted. She was always very quiet, never spoke – he assumed it was because she was scared to. He knew she was terrified of saying the wrong thing and being punished for it.<p>

He considered her as she worked, and quite suddenly, he remembered an incident which had happened only a couple of weeks after she'd started working for him.

She had thrown out some remaining food which he was going to give to the dogs. It was something quite inconsequential, but he remembered it because it was the first time he had beaten her. Back then, she still had some of her old impulsive curiosity, and she'd asked him what she'd done, why he was beating her.

Amon could remember his own response quite clearly. "The reason I beat you now, is because you asked me why I am beating you." Though it had been a year ago, Amon could remember his reasoning. Why should a maid, a Jew, have the right to ask about his motives? Why should she question his decisions? He'd felt the need to punish her apparent audacity. Now, looking at her, he thought his reasons, his reply to her had been irrational, but he must have meant them at the time.

He leant forward, turning the page of the paper in front of him. Helen kept her head down, concentrating on filing his nails. She stopped for a moment, checking the length of the nail she was working on.

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><p>As the Kommandant leant forward, Helen continued with her work. She could feel him leaning forward to turn the pages of the paper. Helen looked down at the Kommandant's hand. His fingers were long and pale; smooth considering that he was, in essence, a soldier. There was no indication that she was, i fact, holding the hand of a murderer.<p>

These hands have killed many, thought Helen. She thought similar things whenever she did this work, because it always struck her as strange that he could behave so cruelly and then be perfectly calm and civilised mere moments later. She had, herself, often felt the force of blows from these hands. It did scare her, to be touching the man who had so impulsively attacked her only days earlier. But he wasn't beating her now, and Helen supposed she should, at least, be grateful for that.

He leant back again, but Helen could sense his eyes on her, for she felt the prickling sensation which often came as a result of being watched. It unnerved her, and there was a terrible tension in the air between them, a heavy silence which felt somehow dangerous.

He leant forward again, and this time he was so close to her that Helen could smell his aftershave, could feel the heat from his body. His head was less than an inch from hers. For a moment, Helen lifted her eyes, but she was quite small in stature and could barely even see over the Kommandant's shoulder.

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><p>Amon felt Helen stiffen next to him, and he could tell that his proximity was making her more than a little uncomfortable. He could smell her, the faint scent of soap and femininity which radiated from both her skin and her hair. She did not smell of vermin.<p>

It was moments like these which made Amon doubt his previous convictions about all Jews being filthy, unpleasant creatures.

Helen was obviously an exception, Amon thought to himself. She, in his opinion, was as close to perfect as a person could be. Amon cursed himself inwardly for thinking such thoughts, but somehow, he couldn't seem to stop them. And for that he hated her. He really could not fault her for anything other than her heritage. It was difficult to hate her. She was so... innocent. Well, he supposed she had been before she arrived at the camp.

"Your other hand please, Herr Kommandant." Helen's voice shook slightly. He leant back, and she seemed visibly relieved as he did so, extending his other hand.

Her touch was gentle, light, and her skin seemed unaffected by the chores she had to do each day. Her hair was neat, as usual, but Amon could see the shadow of bruising on her face beneath the layer of powder she was wearing. The bruise was a little lighter, he thought, but not much. He supposed it would not properly fade for a while.

She carried on working as Amon watched her, the newspaper all but forgotten. He felt an inexplicable urge to start a conversation, to say something, anything to alleviate the suffocating tension he was sure she could feel too.

"Where is your home, Helen?" Amon said, suddenly. Helen looked up, startled.

"I am from Krakow, Herr Kommandant." She looked away again and Amon could see she was distracted, could see he'd perhaps reminded her of things she'd wanted to forget. Things he'd caused, some of them, he guessed. Why did I even say anything, he asked himself. He didn't really understand why he was even talking to her.

Helen was studiously not looking at him, but Amon thought he may as well carry on. "Which part of Krakow? Helen?"

Helen looked up, putting the nail file on the table. Apparently, she was finished anyway. "I lived in the Kazimierz District, sir. It is close to the old synagogue." She rubbed the dust from the file off his hand, inspecting her work. He could see her hands shaking slightly. She noticed him looking and folded her hands in her lap, not looking at him again.

Amon did his best to ignore this reminder of her Jewish parentage. The Kazimierz District had had the highest concentration of Jews in Krakow, even before the formation of the ghetto.

"You miss it?" He asked. He could have kicked himself when she nodded, and he could see her eyes welling up, and they were unnaturally bright.

A tear spilled out of her eye, making a smeared path in the thin layer of powder on her cheek. Oh God, don't cry, thought Amon. He could see that Helen was fighting with herself, willing herself not to cry, not to break down in front of him, as she probably expected it to result in her being mocked or punished.

This was his fault, he knew. Hesitantly, Amon reached out with one hand. Helen flinched away from him, expecting a blow. Instead, he wiped the tear from her cheek. Helen's eyes were wide with hurt and surprise, but he could hear her breath catch in her throat as he, awkwardly, moved his hand to cover hers. She tried to pull her arm away from him, but he wouldn't let her.

"I'm so sorry..." she stuttered.

"No, I'm sorry, Helen," Amon said, and he meant it, he really did. "It was a stupid thing to say, and half of it's my fault anyway." He frowned. "And I said you shouldn't be scared of me, didn't I?"

Helen nodded slightly and took a deep breath. She was going to say something, but he spoke first.

"Do you think I'm a bad person, Helen?"

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><p><em>Yes,<em> she thought_, and I wish you'd move your hand!_

How on earth was she supposed to answer that? It was another of those occasions, like the other night in the basement, when Helen just didn't know what to say. She couldn't very well say yes, but she could not lie.

"You don't need to reply – I can see your answer written all over your face." said the Kommandant. "I also think I am, sometimes. Especially when I'm with you. I forget how different we are, Helen. I imagine Krakow is quite different from Vienna, where I am from. It is quite beautiful there – I am sure you'd like it." He changed the topic quite abruptly.

Why is he saying these things, Helen wondered, it isn't as if I'll ever go there...

"Do you think, Helen, do you think that you could ever forgive someone like me? Or am I beyond redemption, in your view?" The Kommandant asked her. He seemed perfectly serious, and with a jolt, Helen realised that he really did expect an answer.

"I think...," Helen began quietly, "I think that there is a certain point beyond which one cannot be redeemed." She said, carefully.

The Kommandant raised a questioning eyebrow. "And have I passed that point, do you think?"

Helen shrugged almost imperceptibly. "I could not possibly say, sir. I don't know." Her voice wavered.

"Hmm." He frowned. "You're far too polite, Helen." Helen wiped her eyes with her free hand, and then rested it on the table.

"The powder is smeared all over your face." The Kommandant said.

"Sorry..." Helen said.

"Don't apologise. It's not your fault. Nothing is ever your fault..." Slowly, the Kommandant removed his hand from hers. "I wish I could find something real that I could dislike you for. It would make things so much easier." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes and he seemed like he was going to say something else, but instead he sighed. "But I can't. You may go, Helen. Thank you."

Helen got up quickly and put the nail files back into the bag. She pushed the chair in and turned towards the door.

"And Helen, if you have a problem, if you feel I am treating you badly, tell me, not Schindler. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Herr Kommandant." Helen replied. Not that she could really say anything else. She practically ran back down to the basement, barely making it down the stairs before the tears started again.

All the memories she'd wanted to suppress were coming flooding back again. Why he had to say things like that Helen didn't know. Why couldn't he just leave her to do her job?

Helen sat down on the thin mattress she slept on, and cried. She hardly ever did, nowadays, but she was just so _tired_, not so much physically as emotionally. The constant having to be on guard, having to be quiet and respectful even to people she hated, it was terrible for her, and sometimes came close to wearing her down.

Talking to Schindler had been a brief respite, for it had been a relief to talk about how she felt. She wondered why he'd told the Kommandant – Schindler must have known he wouldn't approve of her talking to other people. Now even that was lost. How could she possibly talk to the Kommandant about anything, when he was the root of so many of her troubles?

Helen did wonder if perhaps the Kommandant was not a little mad. For what other explanation could there be for his behaviour? He had seemed quite sincere, and genuinely concerned about her. But what could she say when he asked her if he was a bad person, when he asked her if she could forgive him? Surely it was not possible for such a senselessly cruel man to ever be a good person?

And it wasn't her place to forgive him. It shouldn't be her he apologised to. On the scale of things, the harm he did her was quite inconsequential compared to what he did to others. But nonetheless, he had apologised to her, and Helen didn't think that the Kommandant was the sort of man to say things he did not mean.

But then, he wasn't really the sort of man who would usually apologise to anybody. Especially not, thought Helen, to a Jew, someone he considered so far beneath him. She couldn't even begin to guess what he'd been thinking.

And what on earth, wondered Helen, did he mean about it being easier if he could dislike her? She'd always thought he disliked her anyway. Not for any particular reason, but simply because she'd assumed he saw her as filth, no different from the other Jews he looked down on.

But he could be kind too, she considered. The powder, he hadn't needed to give it to her. Yes, she told herself, but it was to cover bruises he himself inflicted on you... To apologise for upsetting her and hold her hand as she cried, that was not the sort of sentiment she would usually, or ever, associate with the Kommandant. But neither were many of his actions over the last few days. He had been coming across as quite likeable, really.

_What the hell are you thinking, Helen?_ She shook herself, reminding herself that he was, in fact, a murderer, he killed people on a daily basis. This was the man who had, however indirectly, caused the deaths of Helen's parents, and he was unpredictable, just as likely to beat her as to comfort her. Not to mention that he was arrogant, possessive, jealous, violent and cold.

No, she told herself, the Kommandant is beyond forgiveness.

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><p>Amon watched her leave. He knew she'd be running down to her poky little room, probably crying again. He wanted, so much, to follow her, to hold her in his arms and comfort her. But it would terrify her. He'd done his best, but he shouldn't even have been thinking such things, let alone acting on them, shouldn't even have been considering how she felt.<p>

But, whatever he wished he could tell himself, he did somehow care about her, and he felt somewhat guilty that he'd made her cry.

Amon wondered if Helen could ever forgive him all the wrongs he'd done her. Most likely she hated him. In all fairness, he couldn't blame her. He turned back to the paper he'd been pretending to read for the last hour. He couldn't concentrate on the words in front of him. He kept seeing her face, the tears making lines in the powder on her cheek.

He didn't want to admit it, but he was scared of the weakness which she was causing. This can't be healthy, he thought. He knew his behaviour was fast approaching ridiculous, inexcusable. But inexcusable to whom, that was the question.

_Could I perhaps, could I allow myself to love her? _This was the question which plagued Amon, but he was scared of the answer.

Yes, she is a Jewess, Amon thought, but it is not her most defining feature, and in every other way, she is... perfect. Perhaps it could be overlooked; surely it could not be so wrong...

But for a man of Aryan blood to have a relationship with a Jewish woman is even forbidden by law, he told himself. He was reminded of Oskar's night in prison the previous day, all for simply kissing a Jewish girl at a party.

If he pursued this, he could go to prison. He was ashamed of what he felt, and if anyone found out, he would be ruined, stripped of his rank in the SS. Was it worth the risk, he asked himself.

The rational part of his mind told him no, but that part was small, and Amon, being by nature a wilful and somewhat reckless man, finally decided that yes, it would definitely be worth the risk.

But could he ever tell her? She would be repulsed, terrified. She was still so young, thirteen years younger than Amon, and had her whole life ahead of her. It would ruin her. Amon knew he could easily overpower Helen, he could take whatever he wanted from her, regardless of it was offered or not. However, the thought made him shudder, and he knew he'd do his utmost to make sure that it never got that far, that he wouldn't let himself sink so low as to do such a thing. The momentary sating of his desire in such a way would only serve to hurt her further, and would not please him, not really. Truth be told, he wanted more from her than just convenience.

You are a fool, he told himself. As if she could ever think of you in such a way – she sees you kill; she has felt the force of your unreasonable bouts of anger. And despite what you ask of her, she is scared of you.

But, Amon thought, Helen scares me too, quiet and kind though she is, for anybody would be scared of feeling this way.

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><p><strong>Please, please review! I hope you liked it. I would like to get at least ten reviews before I update again, but I will type the next chapter up as soon as possible, so hopefully you won't have to wait too long. I hope you're still liking it - it may seem a little slow at the moment, but rest assured that it will get more eventful soon.<strong>

**Thanks, **

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	10. Oskar's Request

**Hello! Sorry it's been a long time, I'm in the middle of my exam period... Hope you like this next chapter!**

**Just a note - up until now, all that has happened could, conceivably, have been canon. From here on in, it really does not adhere to canon. Hopefully not in such a way that it is OOC, but it changes to what I thought was going to happen, what I would rather have happened in order to see this story-line developed further. **

**Disclaimer - I do not own any characters, nor do I own "Schindler's List", this story is based on the film interpretations of the named characters as portrayed by the actors, not the real people, and I do not mean to offend anyone.**

**EDIT - Sorry about the Harry Potter thing, uploaded on my phone and it got a bit weird! **

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><p>"Oskar, there is a clerical error here, at the bottom of the last page." Amon passed the sheets of paper back to Oskar. Schindler's list. It was the first he'd heard of it, but Oskar wanted to relocate the factory to his hometown of Brinnlitz, in Czechoslovakia, along with all his workers.<p>

Amon thought it wouldn't really make any difference to him – he'd heard talk that Plaszow would be closing down at some point in the near future, and that all the prisoners were going to be relocated to Auschwitz, so he supposed it didn't matter that Oskar was going to take the workers. He may as well make use of the labour force whilst it's available, Amon thought. He was willing to let Oskar do it. It would, at least, solve some of the Emalia problems.

"Ah. There is one more name I want to put there..." Oskar said quietly. He looked at Amon thoughtfully.

"So? Why are you telling me? Why isn't it written down?" Amon said, puzzled.

"I won't find a maid as well trained as her at Brinnlitz – they're all country girls." Oskar spoke calmly, confidently, as if he was already assured of his victory. As if he already knew what Amon was going to say.

"No. No." Amon shook his head. What an absurd idea. Why on earth would Oskar want Helen? Amon knew that she was a good maid, of course she was, but housemaids were not exactly hard to find.

Oskar took a pack of cards from his pocket. "One hand of 21. If you win, I pay you 7,400 Reichmarks. Hit a natural and I make it 14,800. If I win, the girl goes on my list."

"No. I won't allow it. And besides, I can't wager Helen in a card game." Amon shook his head. A part of him was tempted, sorely tempted, to agree – he thought that perhaps this confusion would fade if he sent her away.

"Why not?" Oskar sounded genuinely interested, as if he really could not understand why Amon was reacting in such a way.

"It wouldn't be right." Amon said, looking at Oskar accusingly.

"She's going to Auschwitz on Number Two anyway. What difference does it make?"

"She's not going to Auschwitz. I'd never do that to her. No, I want her to come back to Vienna with me. I want her to come to work for me there. I want to grow old with her." Amon got up, paced to the other side of the study, turning to look at Oskar, expecting him to nod or say something thoughtful.

"Are you mad? Amon, you can't take her to Vienna with you..." Oskar looked at Amon with incredulity on his face.

Amon was reminded of his conversation with Helen the previous day. You'd like it there, he'd told her. And she probably would have. But Oskar was right... What was he thinking?

"No, of course I can't. That's what I'd like to do. What I can do, if I'm any sort of a man, is the next most merciful thing. I should take her into the woods and shoot her painlessly in the back of the head." Amon looked out of the window. He could see the woods from where he sat. They extended as far as he could see. He sighed and took another mouthful of whiskey, wincing at the strong taste.

"Come on, Amon. What have you got to lose?" Oskar asked.

_Everything, _thought Amon. "I can't bet on her life. Who are you to decide her fate over a pack of cards?" He said.

It wasn't so much that which Amon objected to. He was just uncomfortable with the idea of surrendering Helen to someone else, especially Schindler with his charming manner and weakness for pretty girls, no matter who they were.

"I'm trying to help her. If she stays, I can't imagine it'll end well for either of you." Oskar raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?" Amon looked at Oskar, irritated. How dare he make presumptions?

"You know full well what I mean, Amon. I don't know what passing fancies you're entertaining, but I'm going to be straight with you. This can never work out for you, whatever you're hoping. I thought I'd be doing you a favour. Because that temptation will always be there for you, won't it. That little voice in your head saying "What if?"..." Schindler sounded exasperated, as is speaking to a stubborn child.

"It's not that. Like you said, i won't find another maid like her, Oskar." Amon tried to keep calm, but he could feel his temper rising. He clenched his fist on the table, his frustration seeping out.

"I doubt you keep her around for her housekeeping skills. Pretty girls are ten a penny, Amon, but she is too good for you, regardless of your... differences. Not that you'd ever admit it. Nonetheless, nothing can come of it." Oskar rolled his eyes.

"Don't you think I know that? Bloody hell, Oskar. Don't you think I haven't thought of that, that I don't think about it every _fucking_ day?" Amon's voice became angrier and rising from his seat, he faced Oskar, his eyes blazing. He turned away from the other man, sitting back down heavily behind his desk. He rested his head in his hands, aware he'd said too much, but past caring.

Amon looked up to see Schindler looking at him in a mildly curious, smug fashion. "I knew I'd get it out of you one of these days," Oskar said. "You asked me once, how much is a life worth to me? Well, how about 14,800 RM, Amon? How about it?"

"No. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. You don't understand."

"29,600 RM."

"No means no. I will not _sell_ Helen. You aren't going to persuade me. Now, if that's all you wanted, please leave."

"Alright. I only hope you won't regret it. But in the end, it's her I feel sorry for. Because it is all very well to pardon people, Amon, but who will pardon you? Will she? And will you ever be able to pardon yourself?" Oskar turned and left, his self satisfied expression replaced by one of surprise and doubt.

"Idiot..." Amon muttered. Whether he was referring to Oskar or to himself, even he wasn't sure. He vowed that he would end this soon, once and for all. It would go no further. He had not been joking when he had said that he ought to shoot her. It would be an end to her suffering, a fast one which would pain her less than remaining here, he thought.

And it would be soon, because he did not know if he could bear it for much longer. For some reason, Amon would rather have killed Helen himself than allow her to be "saved" by Oskar Schindler.

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><p>It was evening when Helen heard somebody quietly descending the basement stairs. It was not, as she'd expected, <em>not hoped – never hoped<em>, or maybe as she'd feared, the Kommandant, but Oskar Schindler. He smiled faintly when he saw her.

"Hello again, Helen." He spoke mildly, as if it was perfectly commonplace for him to wander around other people's houses to converse with their servants.

Helen shifted uncomfortably. The Kommandant's words echoed in her head. _Tell me, not Schindler._ "Sir, the Kommandant did say to me that he'd rather I did not speak with you..." Helen said, nervously.

"Yes, he did mention something... But what I wanted to talk to you about is quite important," He said. That sounds serious, thought Helen. "You probably don't know this, but I am relocating my factory to Brinnlitz, my hometown. And I would ask you whether you would want to come there with the others. You know some of them, don't you? Mila, Poldek, Joseph, Rebecca?" He asked.

Helen nodded. She'd never expected such an offer, always thought she'd be trapped at the Red House for the remainder of her days, for surely they were numbered. "With respect, sir, I think you would be wiser to ask the Kommandant than me." Helen knew that the Kommandant would be furious if Schindler didn't consult with him on such a matter.

"Oh, I have." Schindler said.

"What did he say?" asked Helen.

"Oh, he said no. Quite vehemently, might I add? No, he doesn't want to let you go." Schindler replied. He didn't sound as though this worried him.

"Then I cannot go..." Helen sighed.

"Cannot, or will not, Helen?"

"Cannot, of course. How could I leave if the Kommandant forbids it?" Helen raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. Given the choice, of course she would leave! Who could think otherwise?

"Well, put it this way, Helen. If the train were to leave, with you on it, if you managed to leave here without him knowing, then by the time the Kommandant noticed your absence, you would be long gone, far away from his influence." Schindler said to her. Helen was shocked.

"I thought, please forgive my speaking out of turn, but I thought that you and the Kommandant were... friends?" Helen asked, confused. She did not know why Schindler would go behind the back of the Kommandant on a matter such as this. Why did it matter to him?

"We are, in a way. But I disagree with many of his decisions, and I daresay he disapproves of mine. It is convenient for us to get on reasonably well, but I think he is only looking out for his own interests, in this respect."

"I... I don't understand." Helen said, puzzled. "His own interests?"

"He... cares for you."

"Sir, I do not think that the Kommandant..." Helen started to speak, but Schindler held up a hand, interrupting her.

Oh, he does. To what degree, I am unsure, but I have seen his face when he speaks of you, Helen, and despite the fact that he does his best, Amon is not particularly skilled when it comes to hiding what he is thinking or feeling. As you can imagine, he is rather conflicted about the whole thing" Schindler said carefully.

Helen bit her lip, avoiding eye contact with Schindler. She had not thought on it very much, she hadn't wanted to for fear of the implications.

There had, of course, been instances which hinted at the truth of Schindler's words. Helen had put it down to drink, not taken it seriously, as she had only ever viewed the Kommandant with fear and trepidation.

Helen thought back to another night, another encounter in that same spot.

"_I would like, so much, to reach out and touch you in your loneliness..."_

"_What would that be like, I wonder? I mean, what would be wrong with that?"_

"_Maybe what's wrong, it's not us, it's this..."_

"_I feel for you, Helen."_

The calm before the storm, as it was. And that, remembered Helen, had not ended well. He'd come close to killing her with his misplaced anger, and that could not be overlooked. Perhaps Schindler was right. His voice startled her, disrupting her confused thoughts.

"I am, to be truthful, worried about you, if you remain here. For all his protests, Amon is only a man, and he is a man who is accustomed to getting what he wants. That is just how he is. I have frightened you, haven't I?" Schindler said.

Helen shook her head, although it was true that she was scared. Not right now, but scared of what lay ahead. "I would, perhaps, like to come to Brinnlitz to work for you, sir," Helen began, "but what if I did not?"

"Of course, I am not going to force you to go to Brinnlitz, Helen. It is your decision to make. But Helen, if you stay, you must always be on your guard, or you may find yourself in a very difficult situation." Schindler looked around the room. "I am aware that your life is difficult, Helen. I am only trying to help."

"Alright." Helen said. She would not make such a decision lightly, but she might never have such an opportunity offered to her again. Schindler nodded.

"Do not let him know." He passed her a piece of paper from his pocket. It had a date and time written on it, and an address. "Be there at the specified time, and someone will put you on the train. Can you do it?"

"I think so." Helen thought she could probably make it there – the address on the note was near the enamelware factory, on Lipowa Street.

"Okay. Good luck, Helen. I'll see you soon. I will tell Stern to ask Mila and Rebecca to keep an eye out for you." Schindler said. Helen nodded again, and as Schindler left, the full enormity of what she was going to do hit her like a ton of bricks.

Could she escape from the villa right under the nose of the Kommandant? The thing was, she didn't know what to expect if she didn't manage to get out unseen. Schindler's warnings of what might befall her if she stayed had scared her, but if she was caught, or if the Kommandant came after her, there would be disastrous consequences. He would, of course, notice her absence. Whether he'd bother ordering her return, she did not know. But he was certain to know where she had gone, especially if Schindler had already asked him if she could go to Brinnlitz and he had refused.

At least here I have some sort of a routine, thought Helen. Not safety, of course not safety, but perhaps the fear of the unknown is worse than that which I know. However, to be trapped here until I die is too terrible a thought to entertain, and that is surely what will happen if I do not leave when I can.

Helen knew that going to Brinnlitz could solve all her problems. She could have a life, a future.

But what if she couldn't? Was it worth the risk?

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><p><strong>Please review! I would really like to get 10 reviews before I update again, I'm not saying I won't update before this, but it would be nice! :) I know a lot of people are reading, and I'm really grateful, especially as this is quite a small community, so please let me know what you think. <strong>

**Character development, relationships, plot, anything you can think of. Constructive criticism is welcomed! And I hope you don't think Amon is being too nice all the time - that was the only thing I've picked up on from the reviews. He's just confused. **

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	11. Weakness

**Hello!**

**Just so you know, I near enough killed myself trying to write this chapter, so I hope it goes down okay with you all! I would love some more reviews, and I would really like to thank all of you who have been following this story and reviewing so far! **

**Disclaimer - I do not mean offence to anyone by writing this, I do not own "Schindler's List", and all of the characters within this story are based on the interpretations and portrayals of them by actors in the film.**

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><p>Some days later, Helen woke early, with the dawn, and looked around the dark room at her few possessions. If she left the villa, what would she take? She was already making plans.<p>

All her family's belongings had been left behind in the ghetto during the liquidation, and what little she did call her own would hardly be of any worth to anyone else. A comb, the pot of powder, a canvas bag, her shabby grey overcoat. The note from Schindler, hidden in the back of a drawer. The date on it was the next day. Her decision was still unmade, though. The relative security of her position, however unfortunate, was at least known to her.

I really have nothing more than the clothes I am wearing, she thought. All I have is my life, and even that is cheap here, or so it seems.

It was early, earlier than anyone else was usually awake, and it was not properly light yet. It was misty outside, and though it might warm up later, thought Helen, right then, it was freezing. Helen dressed quickly and once again applied the powder to her face.

Schindler's words came back to her again, and she scrutinised her reflection in the surface of the tray she used as a mirror. The bruise on her face was almost gone, as were many of the others, most of which were hidden by her dress anyway. Helen could still see the bruise, but it didn't look anywhere near as bad as it had previously. And with the powder, it wasn't visible at all.

Helen left the basement, wondering when would be the last time she did so. Most days she found herself wondering what her life would be like away from here, who she could be, what she would end up doing. If she'd ever see any of her siblings again. She still hadn't fully made up her mind, but she thought that she would most likely go to Brinnlitz. After all, what did she have to lose?

The kitchen was empty, as she'd expected. The counter-tops were bare and the washing area was empty. Tuesdays were always quiet, thought Helen. She opened the window. Almost immediately, she felt a chill seeping into the room, and she felt goose bumps coming up on her arms. The morning air was cold, but not windy. The weather was always so changeable there, and it could be snowing one day and boiling hot the next. Autumn was especially unpredictable.

"Helen!" She jumped as she heard someone shout her name. Cautiously, she walked over to the door. She had not even thought anyone would be awake, it was so early. "Helen!" It was the Kommandant, shouting from the main house. It was earlier than he usually woke, and this was the first thing which alerted Helen to the possibility that something was wrong.

Nervously, she stepped out into the hall, where she saw the Kommandant dressed in his uniform and brown leather coat, standing by the door. Waiting for her.

"You wanted something, Herr Kommandant?" Helen asked. The Kommandant narrowed his eyes. He looked angry, and his expression was cold.

"Come with me." He opened the door and strode out. No explanation, simply an order she was expected to follow. Helen stepped out of the door, quite apprehensively. She didn't have her coat, and she felt the bitter cold on her skin. She shivered slightly, but wouldn't even consider going back. Of course, he wouldn't let her, and whatever it was she'd done, she didn't want to anger him further.

She followed the Kommandant around to the back of the house, where the grounds led into the woods. He didn't speak or even acknowledge her, he was always a few paces ahead of her. Soon, the house fell away, along with the sounds of the gradually waking work camp. Some of the trees were starting to lose their leaves, Helen noted absently. The sun was rising, but the trees rose high into the sky, blocking out most of the light as they walked deeper into the woods.

Helen tripped a couple of times, over the roots which sprawled across the forest floor, but managed to right herself before the Kommandant noticed. She could feel her hands getting even more numb with cold with every second that passed.

Eventually, they came to a clearing. It was quite small, and would go unnoticed by most unless they knew it was there already. The Kommandant stopped and turned to face her. "Stand there." He motioned to a spot in the centre of the clearing.

Helen did as he'd told her, by now she was terrified. She had no idea what was happening, perhaps he had somehow found out about Schindler's plan? She did not know what she'd done to anger him, why he had brought her here.

The Kommandant walked around to stand behind her. She couldn't see him, but all of a sudden, Helen heard the unmistakeable snap of a gun being loaded. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her heartbeat sped up erratically, and she was filled with a terrible fear, the fear which came from being aware that she was probably living her last moments.

This is it, thought Helen. Schindler was wrong, and now the Kommandant is going to kill me. I am going to die today, in the woods without anybody to care, or even notice. I am going to die here at the hands of this man, who may or may not hate me, who does not value human life, who looks at me so strangely.

"I have a problem, Helen. I will not bore you with it, but I will say that this is the only solution to this problem." He spoke slowly, and what scared Helen was that there were no emotions in his voice at all, no anger or inflection, nothing. "I do not want you to suffer, not really, so I am going to kill you quickly. It will be over before you even realise it has happened."

Helen did not reply. She could feel herself shaking with terror and cold. Her hands were completely numb, and she could see her ragged breaths, almost tangible in the cold air in front of her.

She did not turn around, so she did not see his hand tremble as he pointed the gun at her head.

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><p>Amon took a deep breath and tried to hold the gun steady. He never usually hesitated, never. This gun has taken so many lives, he told himself, that one more will not make a difference.<p>

He walked closer to Helen, the gun still aimed at the back of her head. He could see her hands clutching the thin fabric of her dress so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she was shaking. From fear or cold, he could not tell, but he assumed it was a mix of the two.

He'd thought it all out, had planned it ever since he'd spoken with Schindler that day. He was too fond of her, too close to betraying himself. He had to get rid of her but he couldn't bear to see her go with Schindler, and so he'd kill her himself, quickly, painlessly.

_If I was any sort of a man, I'd take her out into the woods and shoot her painlessly in the back of the head._

She looked so helpless, shivering in front of him. He could not see her face, but she might even have been crying. She'd asked him in the past, back when she'd still had the courage to speak to him in such a way, why he didn't simply kill her. He'd never given her a proper answer.

It really was the most merciful thing to do, he thought. This was the right decision. It had to be. He steeled himself, stepping forward again and placing the gun to her head.

"Goodbye, Helen. Anything to say?"

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><p>Helen, despite herself, felt a solitary tear sliding down her cheek. He was right behind her now, she could feel the cold metal of the revolver at the side of her head. She swallowed.<p>

"I am sorry, Herr Kommandant, for whatever it is I have done to make you hate me." She said, her voice wavering slightly. She sensed movement behind her and flinched, expecting the bullet to tear through her brain, killing her instantly.

Instead, she saw the gun land in a small pile of leaves a few metres to her left.

"I can't do it..." Helen heard the Kommandant's voice behind her, weaker than usual, almost as if he could not believe it himself. "I don't hate you, you silly girl. I should. I can't."

She didn't dare turn around, but she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She refused to believe that the danger was over, did not dare to hope. The blood was still pounding in her ears, her heartbeat was erratic, and she could feel her knees going weak beneath her. She willed herself to stay upright, but her vision was clouding even as she fought to stay standing.

Without warning, she felt the Kommandant place one hand gently at her waist. "For all your fragility, Helen," he said, I think you are stronger than I..." His voice was low, and Helen could sense him behind her, could feel the heat from his body. He was considerably taller than her, and she knew he could probably feel her trembling.

"Helen. Look at me." the Kommandant said, quietly. Helen turned slowly. He was right in front of her; his hand hadn't left her waist. "I don't hate you." He repeated. He leant forward, and Helen froze, fully expecting a repeat of the events of that night in the basement a couple of weeks ago.

"Why are you doing this?" Helen whispered. She'd not wanted to speak, hadn't wanted to rile him, but she was shaking with shock, fear, cold, and a semblance of relief, simply at a loss for what to think.

"I am doing this because I am weak, Helen. Because I am a fool."

And this time, he did kiss her.

It was a moment of revelation, of surprise and of confusion. Helen's eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, she considered trying to get away, before she realised that she was no longer in danger, not really.

What shocked Helen the most was the fact that the Kommandant was not being rough or violent, not in the slightest. He seemed almost hesitant; his lips were gentle on hers. His other hand rested in the small of her back, a vague pressure which she noticed, but which did not startle her.

And then the unthinkable happened. In the days, weeks which would follow, Helen still would not know what compelled her to react as she did next. Perhaps she hadn't been in her right mind; perhaps her sense of self preservation was dulled by the cold and her confusion.

Helen raised a hand, not to ward him off, simply on impulse, resting it on his arm. It was so strange to her, being kissed, being held by this man who all too often had almost wielded the power to end her life. But right then, she wasn't scared. She shouldn't have responded, but she did, and it would not be until later that she would stop to ask herself why.

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><p>It was all he'd imagined it to be.<p>

Amon was furious at himself for his weakness, for giving in to his desires, for allowing his feelings for her to get the better of him. Deep down, perhaps he'd known he couldn't kill Helen. Probably never would, not now.

Part of him wanted to push her away from him now, before he fell any deeper, wanted to deny whatever it was he was feeling. However, that part was insignificant compared to the part which was screaming at him never to let her go.

With a jolt, Amon realised that she wasn't resisting, not crying or trying to get away. He felt an unfamiliar pressure on his arm. It was her, her pale hand on his sleeve.

She couldn't be... But she was; Amon could feel her mouth moving against his, albeit somewhat nervously.

He broke away from her, astonished.

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><p><em>What have I done, <em>thought Helen... Her thoughts were confused, and spots were forming before her eyes. The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was the Kommandant's face, his pale eyes boring into hers.

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><p>Helen's look of surprise mirrored Amon's own, and he was about to speak when Helen's eyes rolled back and her legs gave way beneath her. The cold and the shock had gotten the better of her, and she'd fainted. Amon caught her as she fell – here, in this secluded part of the forest, there was nobody to see his weakness, nobody to see him lowering himself to helping a Jew, touching her, holding her frail form in his arms.<p>

What else was he supposed to do? The sun had risen, but it was still very cold. He felt a guilty pang of conscience – she wore only a thin dress. She would freeze to death, he could hardly leave her. He hadn't really noticed the cold, been too consumed in his own thoughts when they were walking out into the woods, and besides, he'd brought a coat.

I've already made one dangerous choice, he thought. He shrugged off his coat and, supporting Helen with one arm, draped it around her shoulders with the other.

Suddenly, irrationally, Amon fought the urge to laugh – she looked ridiculous wearing his coat, it was obviously far too big for her.

He had thought his problems would be over by now, the gun would have fired another bullet, and another life would have been extinguished. But the gun lay on the forest floor, and Helen was, luckily or unluckily, spared by Amon's own weakness.

He knew he needed to return before somebody noticed his absence, but he knew he couldn't be seen. He had acted impulsively again, not given thought to the danger he'd brought upon himself, and on her, with his actions.

She was so pale, he thought, and very light. Even in unconsciousness, there was a worried crease between her brows. Holding her now, he couldn't see how he ever could have considered harming her, let alone actually done it as he had in the past.

Though, in truth, his fit of anger in the basement had only been partly a result of his own shame. He had hoped that she would, perhaps, respond to his advances, but when the only response he received was her fear, he had felt that he'd opened up too much, shown too much of how he truly felt, and he had nothing to give her except violence.

But this time was different. This time, their encounter had been born of violence and yet had ended in something quite different.

What would she think of him now, Amon asked himself. Not that it mattered – he could do what he wanted and she would be too scared to protest. The strange thing was, he didn't want her to be. Perhaps not so strange to him anymore, because desire her very much though he did, he was reluctant to scare her any more. Amon did, in fact, want Helen to trust him.

It was unlikely she ever would, he told himself, and despite his trying to convince himself, he knew it was not only lust that he felt for her, this woman who he should despise. Amon looked down at Helen; she was oblivious to what he was thinking, her eyes mostly closed and her chest rising and falling slightly with her shallow breaths.

Amon turned to start walking back to the house, before he realised that his gun was still lying where he'd thrown it in the clearing. Gently, he lowered Helen to the ground and went to pick up the gun. It was a reminder of his weakness, his front of strength and false duty, of his hidden desires and something he was ashamed of but could not bring himself to regret.

He tucked the gun into its holster, and returned to the spot where Helen was lying still on the forest floor.

He'd already decided he couldn't leave her. It was unlikely that anyone would see them upon their return, the house backed onto the woods, so nobody would see him go in with her. He was reluctant to lower himself for anyone's sake, but he supposed he had to.

As he bent to pick her up, he noted how cold she was, and still ridiculously pale. Amon stood up and looked down at Helen again. She looked so _vulnerable_. And she was.

Her head rested against his shoulder, and Amon felt a slight pang which could have been loneliness, as he realised that if she had been awake, she would have trembled at such nearness. Or would she?

Amon started walking back towards the house. The walk had seemed longer on the way out, he thought, as the house came into view after only a few minutes.

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><p>Helen's eyelashes fluttered and she opened her eyes slowly, disorientated.<p>

Why am I moving, she thought. Someone was carrying her, and Helen balked with embarrassment as she realized that she must have fainted. She lifted her eyes, confused. It was the Kommandant. He clearly hadn't noticed that she'd woken up yet. The memories flooded back to her and she flushed with shame. She wasn't so cold anymore.

She could feel that she was wearing something over her dress, a coat. His coat. He must have put it on her when she fainted, she thought. Helen noted with distaste the Nazi and SS insignia on the sleeves and collar of the coat, and though she was really in no position to complain, Helen felt somehow corrupted for wearing it, even though it hadn't been through choice.

The coat was heavy around her shoulders, and she was uncomfortable wearing a garment which she had, on numerous occasions, had to clean blood from, blood of the people of her country. It smelled like him, like aftershave and smoke. It didn't smell of death as she would have feared.

Helen became painfully aware of her highly vulnerable position. The Kommandant had one arm supporting her back, the other under her knees. He was being careful, she could tell. He wasn't looking at her, but he looked deep in thought. His paces slowed, and Helen realized that they must have reached the villa.

Helen was suddenly filled with a terrible fear of what would happen once he realized that she was awake, once they returned to the villa. Of course, she feared him almost more than anything else, was so scared of what would happen to her once his benign mood had disappeared. That was always the case, but never had Helen been in such a situation before. She'd never been so unsure. Either she was ignored or punished; she'd never had to deal with such an approach.

There was still nobody around but the two of them, but still Helen didn't want to move, didn't want to do anything to alert the Kommandant to her being awake.

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><p>As he neared the back door of the villa, Amon became increasingly worried about being seen and as he stopped in front of the door, he considered what would be the best course of action. Ideally, he would just leave her, or try to wake her somehow, but leaving her somewhere would arouse suspicion, and what impression would that give?<p>

_What does it matter, she's only a Jew!_ Somewhere in his head, a sarcastic, mocking voice spoke to him. It was what he knew, what was expected of him, the voice by which he'd operated for so long. But hadn't he already broken all expectations of him? Even if there had not been anybody around to judge him for it but himself? And _her_, of course.

He was about to try to open the door when he looked down, and quite unexpectedly, saw Helen looking back up at him, her dark brown eyes wide with apprehension and something like curiosity. He stiffened, aware that he'd already overstepped far too many boundaries that day.

"Oh. You're awake. I... You fainted." Amon said, frowning slightly. She didn't speak. "Can you walk?" He asked. Helen nodded, and so he put her down slowly. For a moment he held onto her, but since she seemed fairly steady on her feet, he removed his arm from her waist and stepped away.

It didn't appear that she was going to say anything, so he opened the back door which lead into the kitchen and stepped inside. It was quite warm in the house, a stark contrast to the chill outside. Helen followed him in, closing the door quietly behind her. She did not look at him, only stood still in the middle of the room, her eyes fixed on the ground.

It was rare that Amon would be at a loss for words, but this was one such occasion. He simply could not think of anything to say to Helen which would not sound completely absurd. Of course, she wouldn't say anything – she must be terrified, he thought.

He was about to try and say something when Helen raised her eyes. When her eyes met his she looked away again, a faint blush spreading across her pale cheeks. She seemed to remember something, and slowly removed the heavy coat from her shoulders.

She stepped forward and held it out to him, not saying a word. He took it, and unable to bear the tense silence for another minute, he turned away from her. "I'll be in my office." He muttered, and Helen nodded mutely.

Amon strode from the room, back to the main house where everything was ordered, normal; nothing was out of the ordinary. If only the same could be said for him and what he was feeling.

Back in his office, he could be the man he'd always been – a commander, a soldier, someone who gave and followed the right orders. Alone, he was strong. With the other men, the other soldiers, he was looked up to, he was strong. He'd always done the right thing, hadn't he?

He threw the coat onto a chair in the corner of the room. He looked out of the window, at the woods he'd just left behind, a place where he'd been, if only for a moment, somebody else.

Who did he want to be? There was a clear difference between the sort of man he wanted to be, and the sort of man he thought he should be. One was a man of duty, of strength and a man who would carry out the wishes of the party until his last breath. The other was a man who could reach out to somebody he cared about, regardless of their circumstances.

But which was which?

For a moment too long, Amon had allowed himself to act upon that which he'd made such an effort to keep under control. She'd got the better of him, her wide eyes and quiet beauty had tricked him again, fooled him into trying to charm her once again.

How weak he'd been, he thought to himself as he sat down, a glass of whisky in his hand. The intention of putting an end to it all had turned to something quite other, something which was so strange to him but had felt so _right._

It should not have come as naturally to him as it had been, her lips should not have felt so soft to him and she should not have been as desirable to him as she had been at that moment. A tenderness borne of cruelty was not the ideal, but it was all he had.

She had not run, she had not cried out for help, for a moment he'd even thought she had responded to him. But back in the house, where everything was familiar and usual, he decided he must have been mistaken. Anything else was too much to hope for.

It didn't change the fact that he'd lost control. He had failed again. In a sudden flash of anger, he hurled the glass in his hand at the wall in front of him. It broke with a smash, and the shards of it lay glittering on the floor.

_I can still taste you._

So many things were broken now.

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><p><strong>I hope the POV swapping was not too confusing for anyone... Hopefully, you're all still enjoying the story, and I will update again as soon as I can. As usual, comment and constructive criticism is welcomed, and I would love some reviews! <strong>

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	12. Consideration

**Hello, everyone! *bows, then hides from all the metaphorical cabbages being thrown* I have FINALLY uploaded another chapter - aren't you pleased? This is a bit of a filler, so I hope you all think it's okay. I appreciate all your feedback!**

**I don't know when I will next be able to update, hopefully it will not be as long as this one. If anyone wants to know about my second holiday to Krakow and my various, ahem, adventures whilst there, do send me a message here.**

**Disclaimer: As always, the characters in the story are only based on the film interpretations of the people mentioned as portrayed by Ralph Fiennes, Embeth Davidtz, Geno Lechner and various others. I do not agree with National Socialist ideology and as usual, mean no offence with the writing and publising of this story. I do NOT own Schindler's List or Schindler's Ark.**

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><p>Helen watched him leave without looking back, heard him ascending the stairs and closing the door of his office. Once he'd left, she found she could move again, and she looked outside, where the day had become bright and the condensation was slowly disappearing from the window panes. She was not cold, but she was dazed and her head ached.<p>

Did he want her dead or not? She'd been so scared, so petrified; she'd truly thought that she was going to die. The proximity of death at Plaszow was too immediate, too close to be ignored, and it was a constant reminder that she could not survive forever. And every time she heard a shot from the balcony she would want to cry, because it was another reminder that she wasn't safe.

But Schindler had been right. There was no other explanation for the Kommandant's behaviour and Helen could finally see why she had remained alive for so long. Helen sat down in one of the wooden chairs in the kitchen, folding her hands on top of the scratched wooden table. She didn't know what to make of it, really.

Helen didn't truly know what love was, she had not ever experienced it herself, and she did not know what it could be. However, she did know that whatever _his_ idea of love would be, it was bound to be warped, twisted, the stuff of nightmares, not fairytales.

She touched her mouth lightly. She couldn't stop herself from replaying that moment in her head. Helen didn't fully understand her own reaction. It was something completely new to her. It had been, ironically, her first kiss. Helen had never expected her first kiss to come from a murderer, a man who could be so cruel and so kind to her almost with the same breath.

The more she thought about it, the more Helen tried to convince herself it couldn't be real. For God's sake, he was the Kommandant! She ought to be less than nothing to him. What was it that drew him to her, Helen didn't know. What was it which had made him willing to ignore the rules he'd made for himself and lower himself to touching _her_?

The first time Helen had seen him, she'd known immediately that there was something strange about him; he'd stood out amongst the other officers before Helen even knew who he was. And that day at the camp... Even back then, she hadn't been sure if she'd been saved or condemned by his choice, and it was true that she still did not know. Her opinion changed daily.

Helen, to her own shame, could not deny that he was attractive; she had noticed the first time she saw him, but she had simply never thought upon it because the extent of his crimes made it far too difficult to even consider who he was without them. It was impossible to separate the Kommandant from the atrocities he committed because they were simply such a defining part of who he was.

_You should find him unpleasant._ _He is a murderer, that is undeniable, a killer who shoots your people for sport and feels no regret for doing so. Worse even, he probably feels proud for it. Murder cannot be forgotten, some crimes cannot be overlooked. _

Helen snapped out of her thoughts, greatly disturbed by the path they'd taken. How could she possibly view him with anything but revulsion? She could not, and that was the end. And she most definitely should not have responded to such an advance, for under _no circumstances_ could it ever be right. Helen could make no excuses for him, or for herself. She swore to herself that if such a situation ever arose again, she would not even move, and she would not encourage it, not even for a second.

On top of her embarrassment at having fainted in the first instance, Helen couldn't bear the thought of being unconscious in front of him. She didn't know how many times he'd seen her sleeping other than the one night she'd woken and seen him, but the idea that he had such complete power over her when she wasn't aware of it was almost too much to think on. _But isn't that ridiculous, _Helen thought, _because he will always have control over me, regardless of whether I am awake or not. The only difference is that when I am asleep, I do not know about it. _

Helen tensed abruptly upon hearing the sound of smashing glass from somewhere within the main house. She turned to look at the door with trepidation but nobody entered the room.

_Not my concern_,she told herself. The threat of being punished for not clearing whatever it was which had broken, was not enough to make Helen leave the relative safety of the kitchen and risk having to face _him_.

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><p>The knock on the door, when it came, was sharp and unexpected, and followed by an incessant ringing of the doorbell. The sudden chime was not heard by many. It was 9am and only a few of the staff were around, although naturally the camp was functioning as usual.<p>

If an onlooker had walked past the Red House at that moment, they would not have seen anything unusual. For the ringer of the doorbell was a regular visitor to the villa, although her visits had become less frequent of late.

Ruth Irene Kalder stood at the door of Amon's villa with the air of someone who knows exactly what they are doing and has done it numerous times in the past. Her air of composed indifference was commonplace, and anybody who knew her would not question her motives for visiting the villa that day. Ruth was, as always, perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place and not a crease in her upmarket clothes.

She had travelled alone to the villa, had called a car to bring her there without bothering to make a return booking. She did not anticipate that she would be leaving the house particularly soon.

She tapped her foot impatiently against the stone front step, wondering what on earth was going on. Amon Goeth controlled an efficient household, and that could not be denied. There was always someone on hand. But apparently not today. Why that was, Ruth could not say.

Eventually, the key was heard in the lock, the latch was undone and the door swung open. Behind it was one of the housemaids – Ruth knew her by sight but had never heard her speak. She was a pale little thing, timid, and Ruth couldn't quite recall... Lena, Ruth remembered, that was her name. Yes, that was what Amon called her. There were a few maids – Ruth barely noticed any of them. If the girl was surprised to see Ruth turning up unannounced at the house, she did not show it.

"Miss Kalder," She hesitated, seeming for the briefest fraction of a moment to consider whether to continue. "Would you like me to tell the Kommandant that you are here?" The girl spoke quietly, not quite meeting Ruth's eyes. Not that this in itself was anything out of the ordinary, and in fact Ruth would have been surprised had any of the staff behaved in a way which suggested they were on the same social level as she.

"No." Ruth's tone was sharp, and the dismissal was clear in her words. "No, it's quite alright. I'll go on up." It was evident that Miss Kalder did not think much of the capabilities of any maid, and did not see why she shouldn't simply go and see Amon of her own accord.

Ruth brushed past the maid, registering that in spite of the abruptness of her answer, the girl's eyes held a thinly veiled look of relief. Of course, Ruth was never one to concern herself with the opinions or circumstances of household staff, no matter how well trained, and so she carried on into the hallway and up the stairs.

Upon reaching the door to Amon's study, Ruth knocked lightly, but was greeted only, much to her dismay, by a disgruntled exclamation from behind the wooden door. "What?"

Ruth pushed the door open, and her eyes widened at the state of the study even as she walked into the room. There was glass all over the floor, appearing to have been thrown or randomly shattered against the wall. The wooden floor was smeared with water and whatever spirits had clearly been in some of the bottles in the room, the fragments of which now lay at Ruth's feet. The odour of alcohol was overbearing and Ruth wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Amon himself was slumped in the chair behind his desk, staring out of the window. As Ruth came in, he turned to see who had dared to disrupt his most recent session of self loathing, showing no enthusiasm for her unexpected arrival.

"Oh. Majola. I... meant to call." he said. Ruth rolled her eyes.

"No, you didn't. I thought I'd surprise you," she replied, "although now I can see it was not worth the effort on my part. Are you drunk?" She asked incredulously. "It's only just gone nine o'clock, Amon, have you utterly lost your mind? What happened? You heard the doctor."

"Who cares if I'm drunk? Besides, I'm not drunk. Not drunk enough... Why are you even here, Ruth?" He sighed heavily, not even bothering to raise himself from the chair.

Ruth stepped closer, her irritation at Amon's reluctance to even acknowledge her becoming more evident by the second. "What's wrong with you? You never used to mind me coming over." She snapped. "Don't we have a good time? But now you never speak to me, whenever I'm with you it's as though you don't even notice I'm there, you never want to have any fun!"

"Yes, Ruth, we have a good time. But I have a job. Don't you? Oskar says he hasn't seen you in a while... I don't want to argue, Ruth. I'm tired..." Amon said, reluctant to address her complaints.

"Grow the fuck up, Amon! Why can't you deal with your problems like an adult? You're thirty-two years old, isn't it about time to start behaving in a way which is a little less like a child throwing a tantrum?" Ruth picked her way over the glass on the floor. "Christ, Amon, what happened here? You're drinking in the morning, you've got a face like thunder, and if you're working then you must be doing a fairly awful job of it right now."

Amon rolled his eyes. "Nothing, nothing... Why do you have to complain so much? It isn't as though you don't have your own life..." Majola knew how to have fun, and she was very good looking, but she had to be one of the shallowest creatures on the planet.

Ruth frowned. "Do you even care about me at all, Amon? I never even talk to you anymore." Absentmindedly, she tapped her fingers on the dark wood of the desk. When Amon didn't reply, Ruth moved to stand next to him on the other side of the desk, laying a hand casually on his arm. "Mony? Don't ignore me."

"Don't call me that." Amon snapped, shrugging her off. He sighed. "Look, Ruth, you practically live here..."

"Used to. These days I barely even see you. Don't you want to go and do something? Take the horses out, perhaps? The woods? The fresh air would do you good, I'm sure." Ruth looked around the room again. Really, Amon, you ought to sort yourself out. You simply cannot carry on like this. I'll call for the girl to clean all this mess." No sooner had Ruth said this, Amon seemed to come to himself at last, getting up quickly.

"No!" He said loudly. Ruth turned back to look at him, annoyed. "What do you mean? It's a mess in here, and isn't it their job?"

Amon stepped over some of the glass on the floor. "It's not a problem. I broke some things by accident – don't concern yourself, Ruth. I'm too busy today." He said. Ruth scoffed in reply.

"I can see just how _busy_ you are, Amon. Well, I'm sorry I bothered. You can stew all you want, but don't expect me to jump up next time you're bored. I'm not your toy, Amon. Goodbye!" Ruth turned on her heel and left the room, fuming.

As Ruth descended the wooden stairs, her heeled shoes marking her exit, she could not help but wonder what had come over him. Ruth was German, and had met Amon a couple of years ago, before he'd taken charge of the Plaszow camp. He'd been completely different then. Throwing parties every other night, he'd been the kind of man who would drop everything for a drink and a bit of entertainment.

But now... Well, he certainly still drank, but it almost seemed to Ruth that not only was Amon reluctant to get involved with the usual sort of fun, but he was also avoiding her. Take Schindler's birthday. In the past, that was the sort of thing she'd always have attended with Amon, he wasn't the sort to go to an event without a woman on his arm.

Ruth had only found out about the party from Wiktoria Klonowska, Oskar Schindler's full-time secretary and part-time paramour, and she'd been fuming for days afterwards. Amon had been terribly brusque on the few occasions she'd spoken with him on the phone, but despite that, Ruth had assumed he'd be pleased if she dropped in. She'd entertained the idea of staying the night, but with the sort of mood Amon was in, it didn't seem as though a romantic evening was on the cards. Then, or ever.

Ruth was, quite frankly, sick to her teeth of Amon's increasingly irrational and childish behaviour. In the past, there'd been a time when she would have found his frivolous attitude somewhat endearing, but it had worn off quickly, becoming only an irritation.

And the shooting. Particularly the shooting.

Ruth, to begin with, had not had any feelings on the matter. She so rarely came into contact with any Jewish people that it made next to no difference to her what happened to them. But the fact that Amon chose to begin nearly every day with shooting at the prisoners was a little too far, even Ruth could see that.

It had always irked her, his penchant for causing such discord, and the maddening frequency of the morning shootings only served as another reminder that perhaps Amon was not completely sane. Ruth could not even count the amount of times she'd been roused from sleep by a volley of shots, often after a night of drinking and merriment when perhaps a calmer wake-up call would have been appreciated.

It was simply a regular occurrence, an indication of the absolute power Amon, as Kommandant, had over KL Plaszow. Ruth was not entirely sure whether his legal rights extended to random killings for the sheer amusement of it, but as long as it did not affect her, she spared barely a thought for the lives which were ended at Plaszow each day. But it had to be said that it was a nuisance.

On her way out of the door, Ruth came to the conclusion that perhaps the true problem was Amon's state of mind, and that workload simply had nothing to do with it. A fling with an SS officer was no great achievement, in the long run, and many a German girl could truthfully claim that she was the lover of such and such a guard or general. But some men will not be tied down, thought Ruth. Amon's aversion to marriage and long term romantic commitment arrangements seemed, to Ruth, not to pose an obstacle. Ruth Kalder was used to getting whatever she wanted, and when it came to men, she had the same attitude.

After all, a woman like Ruth was bound to be, and prided herself on being, well versed in the intricate arts of persuasion.

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><p>"Goodbye, Ruth." Amon said quietly. She didn't hear him, but he had not really intended for her to do so in the first place.<p>

He observed Ruth's annoyed exit with a feeling of detached concern. On the one hand, with the events of that day, Amon had no wish to spend time with Majola. Her frivolities and shallow manner could equally amuse or infuriate him, but then again, she was no break from tradition, nothing she did would be new to him or unexpected. She was simply acceptable; to be with her was no defiance of any social norm or expectation.

Amon had known Majola for a good few years, and had been involved with her in an affair of sorts for close to a year. Despite the careless and somewhat loose nature of their relationship, it was frowned on by nobody, as Amon was not married and neither was Ruth. A woman of fairly decent social standing, she was a predictable sort of choice. Well, of course.

She was German, blonde haired, blue eyed, the very model of an ideal Aryan woman. Perhaps it was that which made her so proud, so irritatingly sure of herself, so quick to assume that the daily lives of many must in some way revolve around her own activities.

Amon looked around the room; the floor was still glittering with fragments of shattered glass, an unfortunate reminder of his own woeful lack of self control. It was not uncommon for Ruth to come by the house unannounced, and Amon knew his reaction would have seemed irregular at the very least. Yes, perhaps Ruth could be tiresome, but she could also be, at certain times and under certain circumstances, fairly decent company.

However, regardless of Ruth's temperament, Amon could not deny that his relationship with her, if one could even call it that, was not one of depth or genuine affection, more of an outlet for mutual, if separate, lust, and perhaps even laziness. They didn't talk about anything serious, despite the fact that they had known each other for a relatively long time. Even in his younger days, Amon had never been one for long lasting commitment, preferring to keep on good terms with a number of women from whom he could simply take his pick whenever he chose.

Growing up in the old, opulent city of Vienna, Amon had experienced a fairly privileged childhood. His family had owned a publishing business for a number of decades, and his father was a man of good upbringing and sound knowledge, if perhaps a touch cruel at times. Despite the fact that as a child, he had never wanted for anything, Amon's family life had not been as idyllic as it may have appeared to a casual observer.

His father had been, arguably, a good man who had become unkind through a mixture of insignificant factors. One could not easily pinpoint the time he had changed from a man who would give up anything for those he loved to a man who had no qualms about losing control. He was altogether too fond of the drink, which led to the educated publisher becoming a violent brute whose wife and children would often bear the brunt of his anger. Like Amon himself, he had a tendency towards the more self-destructive decisions.

However, Amon had always viewed himself as a cultured man, and would have hoped that others shared this view. It was true that he'd always been appreciative of fine music, fine art, and fine wine, but his activities in recent years could be quite accurately construed as a departure from this refined upbringing.

After joining the Austrian National-Socialist movement at the age of seventeen, Amon had been a soldier of sorts ever since. Despite the current power of the party, there had been a time when, in Austria, it had been a largely underground movement. He had moved to a paramilitary wing of the organisation at the age of nineteen, and by the age of 22 had begun to make his way up the ranks of the Austrian branch of the Nazi Party. It had been a drawn out journey to the hard-won role of Hauptstürmführer, but Amon had always seen it as worth the effort.

Being allocated the building of Plaszow Camp had been something of a surprise, but a challenge which Amon had risen to with a grim determination and a sense of underlying pride. The moral implications of his move towards the higher ranks had never been a concern, the thought that his actions might be wrong had never even occurred to him.

It was only the turn of recent events which had led him to question, if only for the barest flickers of time, the morality of his behaviours. And even then, it was easier to remain sane, to remain in control by following a daily protocol, by going through the motions of what was familiar than to admit a flaw and change for... For what?

_For a woman whom he should despise. For the chance at something he'd never have previously considered. For... an impossibility to drift into tangible reach._

It was still fairly early in the day. Ruth's unexpected visit had not been welcome, but it had woken Amon to the fact that his behaviour would be seen as most odd to someone who was oblivious to the inner conflict he was experiencing – to continue as he had been would be to invite speculation as to his state of mind and affairs.

Amon propped the study door open before taking his jacket and coat and leaving the room. The mess in the study will have been cleaned upon his return – and his absence would avoid an encounter with _her_. It was far better to immerse oneself in work than to wallow in destructive thoughts, was it not?

Amon did not come across anybody on the way down to the hall, and he left the house in the direction of the main camp, in a somewhat weak attempt to return to some semblance of normalcy.

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><p><strong>Hope you liked it, please leave a review and let me know what you think! Sorry to have been such a bore with updating. I encourage the whole debate and constructive criticism thing, but pointless rantsrudeness will be removed so please don't be needlessly harsh - I do write for fun and because people like it, so I would appreciate help but not insults...**

**On a happier note, I do have concrete stuff planned from now on - care to take a guess at what may happen?**

**See you soon!**

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	13. Indiscretion

**Hello, everyone! A thousand apologies, and a million thanks for everybody who has followed this story so faithfully. A handshake of congratulation to Maria and Ana for their brilliant stories which have flourished in my absence! *grr* Joking, I love you girls! **

**Thank you so much for sticking with me! I promise my updates shall be more frequent from now on! For now, here is the next installment. If you left a non-anon review, and I didn't reply, do send me a message.**

**Disclaimer: As always, the characters are based on their film portrayals in "Schindler's List", not the real people. I do not hold any National Socialist ideals and recognize the seriousness of the topic.**

**WARNING: This chapter does contain a great deal of violence and bloodshed, so reading on is your own prerogative I won't mark when it gets bad, because it is, after all, set in a concentration camp during the Holocaust, and reality was not censored.**

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><p>The scene which greeted Amon as he neared the manual labour yard of the camp grounds was a far cry from the usual one. Amon prided himself on keeping the camp running smoothly, keeping tight control over both the prisoners and his inferior officers. On his regular inspections of the camp, Amon expected nothing less than the highest standards of both manner and manufacture, and would not hesitate to take punitive action where necessary.<p>

In general, each section of the camp ran without many major faults, each one a functioning cog in the well-oiled machine that was Konzentrationslager Plaszow. It was a rare occurrence that Amon would have to discipline his own officers, but not unheard of. He let them have their small amusements, which included but were not limited to selling off the confiscated belongings of prisoners, and goading, punishing and shaming the unsuspecting labourers. But he would, on some occasions, catch them smoking or loitering behind the barracks when they were supposed to be guarding, or supervising the prisoners as they worked.

Perhaps this was one such occasion. Amon's approach was, for once, not noted by the group of prisoners gathered in the timber yard, most likely due to the fact that it was rare to encounter the Herr Kommandant on foot within the camp grounds; he usually preferred to maintain the formidable height which came from presiding over the camp on horseback during his inspections. Having come to the camp on foot, he did not, perhaps, stand out as much as he ordinarily would. From afar, without his easily distinguishable leather coat, one might – were they not fully concentrating on their surroundings – mistake him for another, more junior guard, perhaps one not so known for taking great satisfaction in the often needless and brutal mistreatment of the inmates of Plaszow.

By whichever circumstance this particular situation had come about, the outcome was unfortunately unavoidable, owing both to Amon's less than favourable mood after Ruth Kalder's visit to the Red House, and his commonplace habits, his very nature.

A small group of prisoners gathered in the yard; unusually, not working at their posts but close together, talking; albeit in hushed voices. As he neared the group, Amon could hear their discussion; quiet yet urgent, their breath misty in the cold air. A young man's voice was the most confident; he appeared to be trying to convince the others of something.

"What's the worst that could happen?" said the young man. He looked around at the group.

"We could be killed!" hissed a woman who looked to be in her middle age. "Do you have any idea what would happen if we were found out? They'd make an example of us…" She looked at the young man with an air of complete incredulity as Amon looked on, unnoticed, his own disbelief growing with every word he heard.

"We're only going to die anyway, here or elsewhere. But we could be free! Don't you want to see your families again? At best, we can escape this place without being stopped. At worst… well, we'll only be given the same fate we have if we remain." Said the young man, looking around. His expression was one of somebody who has seen too much, too young, and has utterly lost their regard for life as a result.

"My whole family is trapped in this place, but at least we're together," said an older man, his voice kept low enough that Amon could barely hear him. But he spoke with a stubborn tone.

"For now. You've seen how they are, and the Kommandant worst of all. They wouldn't balk at torturing your wife, your children. Is that what you're giving in to?" The young man put his hands in the pocket of his threadbare jacket in an attempt to keep warm.

The woman spoke up again. "It's too much of a risk. We'll be found out." The rest of the group murmured amongst themselves.

Amon, having heard little of the conversation, but enough to know their exact intents, could feel his temper rising with each passing second. But he did not speak, waiting for them to continue. All thoughts of benevolence left his mind. The guards at Plaszow were accustomed to dealing with the odd prisoner who tried to flee the camp. Of course, they rarely succeeded and were nearly always executed immediately, usually publicly. But an organised attempt at a group escape? Of resistance? It was unprecedented, and therefore unexpected, and under a different circumstance they may have had a reasonable chance of success.

But purely by chance, they had doomed themselves to failure. Amon looked over his shoulder, seeing three guards strolling nonchalantly out from behind a building, smoking and laughing amongst themselves. The group of prisoners in front of him broke apart hearing their approach, and in doing so caught sight of the Kommandant, his face a mask of cold and deliberate rage.

Their shocked intakes of breath, their terrified eyes, were not anywhere near enough to mollify his anger. Amon took a step forward. "So." He began. "You think to plot against us." As he spoke, the other three guards neared the group, and he shot them a furious glance.

"Where the hell have you been?" He shouted, the guards – all young men – looking sincerely abashed and more than a little scared themselves, though they hid it reasonable. "Are you aware, that in your absence, these… _vermin_ have been planning an escape?" He snapped. For a moment there was no reply as the guards took in what Amon had said.

At last, one of them, a young man of around twenty-four years old, with sandy coloured hair and of medium height, spoke up. "Herr Kommandant, I assure you, we had no inkling-"

Amon interrupted him. "Well, of course you bloody well didn't! You were off smoking!" He said, angrily. The three men murmured their apologies, and as they did so, the group of prisoners looked on, so afeared that they did not move. The young man who had appeared to be instigating the attempt shifted uncomfortably, but looked resolutely at the ground.

"Never matter. Be sure, I'll deal with you later. For now, we must quell this. I won't have it, do you understand?" He barked, the guards nodding quickly. Amon turned back to the prisoners, his eyes blazing. He took his gun from his belt and pointed it in their direction. "Turn around and walk. To the Appelplatz. Go!" As he spoke, the prisoners did not hesitate to follow the order. The guards walked alongside the group as Amon beckoned to them to bring the group, only around six in number, to the main yard of the camp.

When they reached the Appelplatz, one of the guards hit the older man who had spoken out in fear of his family to make him stand straight as they all stood in a line, waiting. There were, as mentioned, six of them.

After the first man, the stubborn young man who had initiated the plan stood. He was tall with scruffy dark hair tucked into a tatty cap, his thin jacket threadbare and stained. Despite all this, he stood straight and looked ahead, regardless of the abuse hurled at him by the guards. Amon stood in front of the group, saying nothing.

Next to him stood the middle aged woman who had disagreed with the young man, well, he was little more than a boy. The heat of the day must have been getting to her, she looked about ready to drop with a mixture of exhaustion and fear. Next to her was a younger woman, perhaps several years younger than Amon himself, who clutched her hands to her mouth, barely stifling sobs at the prospect of what was surely to come. Her hair was straggly and red, but clumped and matted together from the conditions in the camp. He did not recognise any of them, so assumed they weren't part of Oskar's group. The other two were nondescript, another young man and one who looked considerably elderly, both silent and fearful.

"You see, this makes problems for me. Your kind of people, thinking they can just get away with anything, that we will not discover your plans. Typical of Jews, of course, but I have had enough dealings with your type of filth that I am _not fooled_._" _Amon spat, his anger at the prisoners' plotting to defy him had overtaken any previous intentions he had entertained of being merciful or, God forbid, kind. Regardless of the consequences.

He turned to the group of guards, who by now had been joined by two others, Hujar being one of them, as they'd paraded the shamed prisoners through the camp. To Unterscharfuhrer Hujar, he spoke quietly. "Fetch the dogs." Albert Hujar's wince was barely visible, but Amon noticed. He narrowed his eyes. _"Do it."_ He said, dangerously. Hujar nodded, and walked away in the direction of the villa. To two of the other guards, he gave the order to assemble all the other prisoners, no matter what else was going on in the camp.

The prisoners all arrived in the yard, apprehensive and afraid as they were herded into the area by the many guards. By now, all present were aware of the likelihood of something terrible happening. Not a sound could be heard once all the prisoners were assembled, but a terrible, silent waiting. Hujar's booted footsteps could be heard before long, and sure enough he rounded the corner into the Appellplatz, leading the two dogs. They strained at their collars, teeth bared at the crowd of surrounding prisoners. Nearing the newly constructed gallows, which stood ominously in the yard,

Amon gestured to Hujar impatiently, and grabbed the leads as the other man came forward with the dogs, an almost visible shudder travelling through the rows of prisoners. It was not unlike the Kommandant to allow his dogs to attack prisoners simply for sport.

"It has come to my attention that certain plans for disobedience have been brewing within the camp." Amon began. "I won't have it." He spoke loudly enough for all to hear, but not shouting, simply that cold and dangerous tone of voice which never preceded anything good. "I thought… I thought I would make perfectly clear what happens to those who attempt to defy us." He moved towards the group of guards gathered behind him, and spoke quietly to them. Within a moment, they moved to carry out his order. It soon became clear, the way in which the Kommandant would set this example.

The six unfortunate prisoners in the group were dragged to the stark wooden structures which painted such a grim image in the yard, but not prepared for hanging, as was an occurrence more common in Plaszow than the Party officials would have wanted known by the general public. No, instead they were pushed against the thick wooden posts which supported the gallows, and secured with lengths of rope. Only the younger man, the instigator, struggled, the others falling to tears or pleas for mercy.

Once they were secured, a hush fell upon them as though they knew their fates. It was inescapable, the only question now was how long and how painful their deaths would be. Amon reached down and loosed the dogs from their collars. Impeccable trained, the dogs had nonetheless been taught to kill, and savagely, and they surged forward at a word from Amon. They fell upon the first prisoner tied in front of them, and the young man's screams echoed around the yard as the flesh was torn from his body. The instigator of the plan was the first to suffer. A perverted kind of justice, it appeared to be.

The guards strolled along the ranks, occasionally raising a hand to a prisoner who attempted to avert their eyes from the horrific spectacle taking place in front of them. A pool of blood was spreading from the base of the first post, where the dogs were making short work of their first victim. The cries had not abated, the man despite his earlier determination begging for mercy, from the guards, from the Kommandant, from God, but nothing was enough to rouse his aggressors to a concession. The brutality continued, a harsh reminder that nobody was safe. The man's death was drawn out and torturous, but eventually he stopped writhing in a desperate attempt to get away, to save himself, but his body hung there still, a mess of gristle, blood, and bones, and the dogs moved on, losing interest in the no longer struggling corpse.

Amon made no attempt to call the dogs off, watched impassively as one by one, the conspirators were savaged by the animals. It was no different to a sight he had seen many times before, but his anger was beginning to abate, and as he watched the carnage unfold, he turned his head to take in the reactions of others.

His guards, junior officers, supposedly men of stamina and pride, stood behind him. Some looked on, but others looked over the group of prisoners. More than a couple looked just short of horrified, though they were quick to school their expressions into a neutral one when they saw him looking. Many of them were little more than boys, the ones he had caught smoking hanging back, shame apparent in their faces. Rightfully so, as they had been neglecting their duties. They could not have imagined what would happen as a result of their negligence.

Amon was not unused to carrying out punishments such as these, but it was not usual to assemble all the prisoners and force them to watch such a terrible execution. Shootings and hangings were far more common. The shrill scream of the youngest woman was piercing, and turned Amon's head in her direction. He often heard such screams, though it was more usual for men to be handed such a cruel punishment.

Yet the agonized contortion of her features as one of the dogs jumped up, formidable in its height, and clamped its jaws around her face and tore it viciously, was suddenly hideous to him.

It was far too late to stop her inevitable demise – one of her arms hung off uselessly, the muscle torn and the bones exposed, blood gushing from bite marks all over her body. Amon drew his gun and shot her swiftly and accurately in the neck, ignoring the surprised mutters behind him from the guards who were so used to watching him revel in taking a punishment to the very end.

The last couple of prisoners were shot quickly in the forehead, slumping against the wood as Amon called the dogs off, and the animals ran back to him, their muzzles covered in blood. He passed the leads to a couple of other guards who led them away in the direction of the kennels, and turned to Hujar.

"Get them out of my sight." He nodded curtly towards the prisoners, and the group dispersed as they were ordered away and back to their work stations by some of the guards.

To the three men who had allowed the prisoners the opportunity to make such a plan, Amon spoke shortly. "You three, do _not_ presume that you can slack off here, or I'll have you sent somewhere else. For the next week, you deal with patrolling the fences." The men knew better to protest, but it was one of the most hated duties of all available. Having to pace up and down along the fences all day, usually in either freezing or boiling weather, was never an appealing prospect. "And clear the bodies." They nodded mutely, and Amon turned away from them.

* * *

><p>Helen heard the door slam with a weary sense of relief, and yet an equal amount of apprehension. Miss Kalder certainly had a temper, to be sure, and would not hesitate to rile the Herr Kommandant if she so wished. It was very rare that she would speak to Helen, and on the occasions that she would, she was dismissive and abrupt.<p>

Despite Helen's relative lack of interaction with Ruth, she disliked the older woman for a number of reasons, and her unabashedly haughty attitude was most certainly one of them. Prone to fits of shrill anger, where her displeasure was made overtly clear to all, "Majola", as she had come to be known, was an unbearable self-centred woman who treated any member of the household as merely part of the furniture, the background music to what she clearly viewed as her own show.

Ruth had no particular political feeling. That much Helen had gathered from hearing fragments of her conversations with the Kommandant and others who frequented the house. She had little view on the war, other than it was somewhat a nuisance to her. With no consideration for the sufferings of hundreds upon thousands of innocent people, Ruth was a society girl, one who had no regard for things which did not directly concern her. Believing what she was told to believe, she disliked Jews, Poles, and all the other outcast groups of society now deemed unworthy of living, simply because she had been informed it was the current thing to think.

But the Kommandant appeared to humour her, at least. She had not been coming to the Red House with such frequency of late, and although Helen did not know exactly why, she could not say she missed the other woman's presence when she was not around.

The day had turned from cold to ridiculously warm in the space of a few hours. Helen had, upon her baffling return to the house, gone about her work almost mechanically, her mind utterly elsewhere – without the interruption from Miss Kalder, Helen would not have noticed the passing of time at all.

Having finished with cleaning the kitchen and washing the dishes from the previous day, she turned around and lifted, with some difficulty, the washing basket which was on the table behind her. Why one person required so many shirts was beyond her. It was a task she had had to learn to carry out quickly and without fault. With almost no domestic experience before she had come to work for the Kommandant, Helen had soon realised that the slightest mistake would result in punishment at his hands. Her early indignation at his treatment of her had been swiftly suppressed, and indeed beaten out of her, and she learnt that nobody would question the Kommandant without repercussion.

So question him she did not, but her distress at her situation, though it did not abate completely, soon gave way to an acceptance of the suffering she was to endure, only vaguely comforted by the sad thought that others were in a far worse situation than she. It was difficult to remember this, however, when she was on the receiving end of one of the Herr Kommandant's bouts of irrational fury, sparked by the tiniest thing – a smudge of dirt on a mirror or a wrinkle in an otherwise impeccably pressed shirt collar, or often nothing at all to bring on such violence.

And there was, of course, the feeling of unutterable solitude which always hovered not too far from her thoughts. At home, Helen had been accustomed to friendly chatter from her sisters, and a constant buzz of friends and relatives calling in throughout the day. Here… there was all too often silence, though when that silence was broken by a shot outside, or a cry of anguish from a prisoner, or her own name shouted angrily by a man who saw her as the basest kind of creature, she often found herself wishing for the return of the silence, if only for a moment. Living constantly on edge, in fear of her life, at his hands or at the hands of others.

Helen froze at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she considered fleeing to her own basement room, but thankfully they did not stop near the kitchen, only passed by. The sound of the door opening and closing once more was almost a blessing, after that. Some part of her scoffed. _See, he does scare you. He terrifies you._ And he did. How utterly stupid she had been, to even entertain the notion of… She pushed it from her mind again, as she had been attempting to do for the entirety of the morning. For there was little use, Helen thought, to dwell on such things. As she washed the shirts in the large washing tub, Helen brushed a loose hair behind her ear. Her hands ached from wringing the clothes out, and by the time she was finished, it must have been an hour later at least.

With little remaining to do, Helen thought there could be no harm in stepping outside for a moment. She turned, but momentarily decided she did not want to walk out of the back door, did not want to look out into the trees and relive the events of the morning. She left the kitchen, untying her apron and leaving it on a hook by the door, and pushed the front door open slowly. There was nobody around at all. She closed the door behind her with a quiet click, and stepped forward. As she moved into the sun from the house, she froze. The sound of an agonized wail, undoubtedly human, reverberated around the grounds of the camp, and Helen noted, from her vantage point, which was not so high that she did not have a good view of the square, the huge gathering of people in the Appellplatz.

Her eyes drawn, as were theirs, to the gallows where six people were tied, and the animals she loathed so much attacking them so brutally it brought tears to her eyes. And in the middle of it, the Kommandant watched as the horror took place. Helen's hands flew to her mouth. She was unused to seeing such things – hear the shots though she did on a regular basis, she never left the house during those times, wanting to avoid the bloodshed as much as she could.

She watched, horrified but unable to tear her eyes away, as the dogs continued to bite, to tear at the prisoners until they were little more than hunks of torn flesh, their cries subsiding to inaudible whimpers as their life was wrenched from them in the most painful way possible. She watched, as the Kommandant stepped forward and fired one, two, three shots, instantly killing the woman who had shrieked the loudest and then the last two victims. Hardly a mercy, but more so than allowing the dogs to finish them. Now they were simply carrion. She watched, as took place a hideous, terrible fate for people who, to Helen's knowledge, had simply had the misfortune to be born in a time where their heritage made them despised.

She saw him glance up, and immediately whirled around and ran as quickly as she could back to the house, into the kitchen and down into the basement, away from the eyes she did not want to see burning her very thoughts.

* * *

><p>Feeling uncomfortable with punishing prisoners was highly unlike him, but Amon did indeed realise the barbarity of this particular decision. He raised his eyes to the villa above him, not so far away, blinking into the sun as a flicker of movement caught his eye in front of the door to the Red House. He shielded his eyes, too slow to catch but a glimpse of a small figure disappearing through the door. He cursed, as he realised who it had been.<p>

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><p>Fear.<p>

A single shot, over and over again. A blow to her face, a blow to her body, to her mind.

Hope.

A brush of a hand on her cheek, unexpected but not utterly foreign. Whispers of weakness and broken promises to oneself.

Sadness.

Confusion.

Disgust.

Anger.

Love.

Hate.

Gratitude.

A kiss.

Despair.

A murderer.

_I must go to Brinnlitz_, Helen thought. _I cannot stay here._

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><p>The memory of the fear of the now dead young woman reminded him all too clearly of that of another in quite a different situation, whose eyes had widened in shock as he failed to resist temptation, and now once more as he failed to find in himself some common decency, whom he had undoubtedly lost all over again.<p>

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><p><strong>Well, I hope it was worth the wait! Please leave me a review, good, bad, constructive (but NOT flaming)! See you soon, and I dearly hope you, well, not enjoyed, but were engaged by this chapter.<strong>

**Until next time,**

**x The-valkyrie-writes**


	14. The First Departure

**Hello all! I'm back... And so is the story! Review replies on the way.**

**Disclaimer: I do not hold any National Socialist ideals or agree with many of the opinions put forth in the story. Sensitive subject matter relating to the Holocaust, genocide, racism, death. Please don't read the story if you find it offensive in any way. This story is based only on fictional portrayals of the real people mentioned within the film, "Schindler's List" (1993). Some lines herein are taken from the original screenplay of "Schindler's List".**

**Thanks to you all for hanging in there... Without further ado, here is Chapter 14! **

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><p>One might say there is no such thing as coincidence. No good luck, only careful planning. Some claim everything is foretold, and some things are inescapable. It does not mean that each decision does not carry a suffocating weight when carried out.<p>

For whatever reason.

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><p>There were several factors which allowed Helen to carry out her illicit escape from the Red House on the 15th of October, 1944.<p>

One was the cover of darkness, posing more of a help than a threat, and besides, Helen had never been afraid of the dark. In such a time, she knew that the monsters roamed in the day and took to their beds at night, their crimes relegated to the back of their thoughts as they slept undisturbed, if ever even ruminated on at all. And that in itself was doubtful. It was the dark of the early morning which meant that nobody who happened to be awake, in the low likelihood of anybody having yet risen, would have seen a slight figure slip from the back of the house on a hill and thorough the woods behind it, to the edges of occupied Krakow, a town bleak and empty in previously busy quarters but majestic in its structure in others, where the suffering on the very doorsteps of its more fortunate inhabitants had taken little toll.

The early morning was not particularly warm, even fairly mild for the time of year. Helen shook nonetheless. Fear had distracted her, despite her caution. The industrial part of Krakow was deserted, the town nearly the same as in the past bit for the odd soldier not looking out for a girl on the way to a factory which was now stripped, much equipment sent on past the borders, even though it was hardly likely to be used in what was to be a munitions factory, with the workers hastily prepared to follow.

Secondly, Oskar Schindler had become a far more honest man than the one who had entered the Judenrat more than four years ago. And thus his intentions had become far less geared towards his own benefit and become altogether more profound. The paper Schindler had several weeks previously handed to Helen Hirsch in the gloom of a dank cellar, and the address on it, were genuine, and so upon her arrival at the enamelware factory, she was able to join, unnoticed but by a few disinterested workers, the group already present. With a host of them 1200 strong, one more made little difference. Bleary-eyed guards talked amongst themselves to the side of the group, and a braked command let them know that they were to move to the trains which awaited them at the station not too far from there.

Though not panicked, for she had never been the kind, the understandable unease which Helen felt would not be dispelled, not even upon seeing the familiar faces of Mila Pfefferberg and her husband Poldek, and of Rebecca Tannenbaum, no, Rebecca Bau as she was now. Helen smiled weakly as they widened their eyes upon seeing her, and discreetly moved through the dense group to walk at her side, as the whole group was moved on briskly through the barely waking streets.

Her two younger sisters had always relied on her, and she in turn had felt a great deal of responsibility from a young age. Helen had always been more of the kind to stay in control of her faculties when problems arose, but she had never felt as utterly alone as she had grown accustomed to, working in the Red House. And, of course, she had no family now. Her sisters… No, she would not think on it. She could not, at risk of dissolving in tears. Loathe to debase herself as such in any situation, Helen suppressed the harsh flash of pain which accompanied any wondering on the fates of her beloved siblings. Though the barbaric sight of the previous day had driven her to an almost catatonic fear, she had made her decision nearly unconsciously.

The call for the Herr Kommandant to attend a regional gathering of his superiors and others of his own rank had come unexpectedly, but at a time so perfect for her intentions that she had questioned the truth of it when first told. It had only been a brusque sentence or two the night before, with Helen looking determinedly at the floor and willing her legs not to shake, as if there was a chance that he would read her intentions to escape him in her eyes if he saw her. Or that she would flinch away or say something unwise. None of the mentioned possibilities would have boded well for Helen, and thus the swift departure of the Kommandant the previous night had been an utter blessing. The fact that he would be absent for a number of days was even more fortunate.

Now, with Rebecca, Mila and Poldek looking at her with a mixture of surprise, relief and concern, Helen had to be stronger than ever. Sure that her effort to suppress her worry had to be visible, she squeezed Rebecca's hand when the other woman greeted her quietly, looking over her shoulder but seeing nothing other than a mixture of dejection and curiosity on the faces of the other shabbily dressed workers. Helen, owning barely anything, had only a small canvas bag with her and wore her battered brown coat which was hardly a defence against the elements. Hopefully she would not need it. And there were, after all, others who were far worse off than she was.

"He let you go?" Mila hissed incredulously, after their whispered greetings were done. The older girl walked arm in arm with Poldek, whom Helen knew better than many others, as he had worked as a mechanic for the Herr Kommandant as well as working in Schindler's factory. Helen didn't answer, her forehead creased with indecision as to how much she should tell. Mila's expression mirrored her own as she came to the realisation that Helen's presence was not something to advertise. "Or you ran away? Oh, Helen…" Mila put a hand to her mouth, and her worry was evident. Helen, inexplicably, felt the need to comfort her.

She shook her head. "The Herr Direktor requested for me to come. _He_ refused, but nonetheless the Direktor advised me to leave. And I could not stay, Mila, not really…"

Rebecca frowned. "But if he finds out…" She trailed off, her voice low but vaguely disapproving. "You'll be punished, and surely that is worse than staying, at least until… Until he has to let you leave." Rebecca did not labour the point, did not want to tempt fate by hoping for an end to this so soon. Though, God knows, it was what they all wished for late at night when the air was cold and the sounds of human misery so loud.

"Where is Joseph?" Helen asked, trying to change the subject. She was glad of the familiar faces, but there was a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach each time she thought of the possibility of being found out. Rebecca seemed to brighten.

"He is with some of the other men. I wouldn't begrudge him the company…" She smiled, and her face held a touch of carefree spirit. She is beautiful, thought Helen, but this life has aged us all. Rebecca was only a couple of years older than herself, as was Mila, but the two of them made her feel young. "Helen, I mean it, I am glad for you to be here with us, of course, but I worry… You understand?" Rebecca tilted her head to the side as they walked, and Helen looked away, across to the buildings by the train station which were now visible in front of them.

"Never mind that, Rebecca! She's here now, and at least she has a chance at life now. We'll just have to hide her from the bastard, eh?" Poldek winked at Helen and she smiled gratefully. Mila giggled, an almost foreign sound, and rolled her eyes.

"Hardly the time, Poldek…" She chided her husband, but he only grinned. Helen wondered at it, how the personality seeped out of them when they were in the camp, and how different they each were away from its confines. Not that their current position was so favourable, surrounded by guards and the other workers who were used to such hardship. But anywhere was better than Konzentrationslager Plaszow.

As if she had heard Helen's thoughts, Rebecca spoke again. "I am told it will be better at Brinnlitz. But, you know, I heard Stern – you know, the accountant – the other day, speaking to the Herr Direktor, and we shall be making armaments for the war? How strange."

"It's hardly strange, Becca…" Mila started. "They have to put us to work somewhere, and I suppose the Herr Direktor has found a more profitable way to utilise his workforce." Poldek shook his head.

"I hate him sometimes…" He said, unexpectedly.

"Poldek!" Mila exclaimed. "You cannot mean that! Think of the camp – the Herr Direktor has saved us! And Helen, think of it! He is a good man…" She frowned at him, and Helen caught Poldek's irritated huff of breath.

"Yes, Mila, but we're still prisoners. Doesn't matter what we're doing, the case is the same. At least we're better off than those poor sods in the Appellplatz." Poldek replied, bitingly. Helen flinched, and Rebecca looked at her curiously.

"What happened?" She asked. "Other than the usual, I suppose?" Helen looked back with incredulity. How could she be ignorant of what had transpired the previous day. The barbarity of it haunted her, had been the trigger for her final decision.

She shook her head. "Don't. You don't want to know." She said, abruptly. Poldek leaned over and spoke quietly to Rebecca as Helen turned her head forwards, resolutely not paying attention to what he was saying as they were all herded around the side of the buildings to the track, where the trains were waiting. Well, if one could even call them that. The carriages looked to be fit for transporting cattle rather than people, and the scene was bleak and grey.

"How long… How long will the journey take, Poldek?" Mila whispered as the noise around them died down. Rebecca's face, paler than usual and drawn after hearing the story of the punishment of the previous day from Poldek, turned to the sound of a guard's harsh voice calling from the platform.

Helen felt a tap on her shoulder and looked behind her quickly to see Joseph, a brief smile on his tired face greeting her as he linked hands with his new wife. Rebecca's eyes, for all her flippant remarks earlier, flooded with relief to be reunited with him, and stood in the middle of the two couples Helen felt a stab of loneliness and more confusingly, betrayal. Jealousy, at least. But she had no comparison to make, no companion she would wish to remain with for the rest of her life as they so obviously did.

The crowd of people began to move, filtering off into groups which were pushed towards the carriages of the train, each clutching their belongings as if it was all they had in the world. And for most of them, Helen supposed, it was. Her hands tightened around the shabby bag until her knuckles turned white, and she was glad not to lose sight of Rebecca and Mila as the women and men were forced to enter separate carriages. A whispered goodbye was all they had before the unexpected separation, and then she was shoved into the carriage, dark and crowded, amongst an increasing number of women.

The small space seemed to close in on them as more and more people entered the carriage. Finally, with more people than one could have deemed possible pushed into the carriage, the metal door was slammed shut, and sounds of panic could be heard from along the whole train. Even in that short time, the temperature began to rise quickly and Helen prayed the journey would not be too long, praying only abstractly in her mind, not to a God she believed had forsaken her long ago.

They could hardly move, the women with a few children amongst their number, the luckier ones near the edge where they could have a glimpse out of the gap in the metal carriage wall and a breath or two of fresh air. With no room to sit down, they stood packed tightly together, the air inside stifling.

"Mila, this is awful!" Rebecca muttered. "At least at the factory we could breathe…"

"It won't be long, I'm sure…" Mila replied, but her voice cracked mid-sentence, her worries overcoming her attempt at a calm exterior. Helen said nothing, but craned her neck to look past the woman next to her at the train platform. She could see so little. She did not know what she was looking for, or what she expected to see or hear. Perhaps the sharp sound of booted footsteps and a caustic voice challenging the Herr Direktor's authority, orders to search the train, to look for her and throw her down on the ground back at the mercy, or rather lack thereof, of a monster.

But no such order came, and after what seemed like an eternity, there was a sharp whistle, a shout, and the train, _finally_, began to move. As it picked up speed, Helen felt something of a weight lift, as despite her worries, despite the unbearable conditions, it was a degree of freedom which she was thankful for, that even in this oppressive environment, she could finally breathe a little easier.

* * *

><p>Her thanks did not last long. The morning chill turned quickly to dangerous heat, and as the train continued to travel, without stops for water or food, the environment swiftly became dangerous. The pained exhalations of air from the mouths of the women in the carriage became a common thing for Helen to hear, and she worried for the health of some.<p>

Time could only be measure by the light in the gap in the wall. As night fell, the sounds abated, as people fell asleep however they could, _if _they could. A few of them had bits and pieces of food, flasks of water, but they were few. And the thirst was terrible. In the night, Helen felt the roughness inside her mouth which came so suddenly, a terrible dryness. She listened to Mila's soft sobs next to her, and noted Rebecca's resolute silence. The coughing. Terrible, harsh sounds. A child.

Helen closed her eyes and waited.

* * *

><p>The first death came in the early hours of the second day.<p>

A girl, only a young girl of no more than ten years, clutched in her mother's arms. Dehydration. They were all hungry, all so thirsty. The carriage stank of human waste and proximity, and Helen, though having eaten very little was not uncomfortable in that sense yet, did not know how much longer she could bear it. But bear it they must.

* * *

><p>The next day, it was cold, and oh, how it rained. Blessed tears from the sky, and the women stretched their hands through the gap in the carriage, desperate for the rain to fall on their hands, to wet their parched tongues.<p>

Within the hour, they reached Brinnlitz.

* * *

><p>It was a dingy seeming town. Clearly industrial, and a small distance from Brno, the nearest city. The home of the Herr Direktor had not come, as they had perhaps thought, as some magical haven where all would be well. But it was a blessing after the confinement of the carriage, and as they stumbled from their metal prison, those who still believed thanked god for their lives. The ones who had lost someone, for in their carriage alone there had been some ten or more deaths out of the near one hundred in their carriage. The stink of death had been overwhelming, and the gritty, smoky air of Brinnlitz a relief.<p>

The train station there was small, but Mila, Rebecca and Helen clutched each other as they left the train, and all the women looked at each other with wide, pained eyes which hoped for better. A touch on the shoulder, a brief moment of clasped hands served to remind them, _you are not alone_.

When the two other women were reunited with their husbands, Helen turned away to give them a shard of privacy. She looked towards the factory complex which would be their home, and _hoped._ She did not see the suited figure making his way towards their group.

* * *

><p><em>Finally.<em> Oskar strode towards the workers huddled in groups at the station, his posture open and welcoming. Young SS men stood at the station, but did not speak, glancing at him with vague wariness as he passed them, though he showed no animosity, greeting each with a brief nod. The commander of their group, Liepold, nods back, a curt acknowledgement of the other man muttered as Oskar passed.

"Excuse me!" Oskar called, and groups of people turned towards the sound of his voice. He stepped towards a slightly raised platform surrounding the buildings of the station and addressed the workers. They all turned towards him, waiting. Among the sea of faces, Oskar saw Stern at the front, his face impassive but clearly relieved to have arrived at Brinnlitz. And Poldek, and… Helen! In truth, he had not been certain she would come. That she would even be able to leave the house.

Clearly he had thought too little of her. He recalled Amon's mentioning some regional meeting or another, and realised that this must have been what allowed the girl her escape. He did not fear Amon, of course not – the man was altogether far too ridiculous for someone such as Oskar to fear him – but he did have the ability to make things… difficult. Though Goeth's rank in the party was not particularly high, as the Kommandant of the camp where Oskar had bought his workers, he held a degree of sway over others if Oskar were to challenge him in any way. And regarding Helen… It was dangerous territory, Oskar knew. But if it would save one more person… Perhaps it was worth it.

He put it from his mind as he spoke to the assembled workers. Any attempt to put them at ease seemed too trivial, after the hardship they must have endured. Strange, how it cut him to the bone, this treatment. But what could he do? Demand first class trains, for the Jewish prisoners? Unlikely. Even Amon's indulgences only stretched so far.

But now they are here, they are his workers and under his authority.

"Welcome to Brinnlitz. I know your journey has been long, and hard, but from here it is only a short walk to the factory, where you'll find hot soup and bread waiting for you. It can in no way erase the hardship of the journey, but now you have arrived." Oskar smiles, and he hopes it goes some way towards reassuring them, these people who he has tried to save.

Commander Liepold shifts, clearly uncomfortable with Schindler's kindness to the workers, for he does not see faces, all he sees are white bands with starts which proclaim "Jew". But Oskar does not, and so he pays him, him and his guards, little heed. Oskar gestures towards the road leading from the station. "Please. This way."

He steps down from the raised platform, and Commandant Liepold, his lined face disapproving, taps his shoulder lightly. The man is older than Schindler by at least ten years, but he does not intimidate. He clears his throat and Schindler turns expectantly. "Yes, my good man? What can I do for you?"

"These Jews, and this camp fall under my jurisdiction, Herr Direktor…" He says, warningly. For this is a camp, under another name but a cub camp of Konzentrationslager Plaszow nonetheless. But he smiles icily and replies to the man with colder eyes than he turned around with.

"That may be so, Commandant, but these are uniquely skilled technicians, and the manufacturing activities at my factory are very important – as you know, on the SS's secret list. _For the benefit of our country_, my work force is not to be disturbed. I appreciate your help, Commandant Liepold." His smile does not reach his eyes, but the older man does not press the point, rather turns and mutters something to one of his inferiors, turning from Schindler and walking away with a last, distrustful look.

Oskar walks alongside the group before reaching the forefront of them all, and leads them through the town. But the Brinnlitz of his youth is not as tolerant of these new Jewish workers as they always seemed to be of his antics as a younger man, and he does his best to ignore the angry taunts, the denouncements and occasional rock hurled by the good citizens of Brinnlitz who line the streets. He had not expected a warm welcome, but he had hoped for indifference. Perhaps it would improve, with time.

As they turn into the yard of the new factory, Oskar catches sight of a wall emblazoned with graffiti. The letters are blocky and unforgiving, their message striking and unmistakable, and party to more than a few worried looks, here in this place where there is supposed to be safety.

_Keep the Jewish Criminals out of Brinnlitz!_

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><p>Filing into the factory behind reunited husbands and wives, lovers, parents and children, Helen's fear has not abated but been dulled somewhat. The reception from the townsfolk in Brinnlitz was less than kind but she had expected… She doesn't know what she had expected. Peace was too much to hope for in a territory ruled by hate.<p>

The microcosm of the factory offered a kind of respite, at least for her, and under the towering Hilo machines, a meal of soup and bread awaited the workers, and water, _thank goodness_. It was no luxury, but felt like one after the unbearable hunger and thirst of the journey.

A voice behind her startled Helen as she finished her meal. "You managed to come, then." It was Schindler, a warm smile on his face, as if it is no strange thing to sit amongst his workers, his _Jewish workers_, and converse with them as though discussing the weather.

Helen's reply is measured, her posture careful. "Yes, Herr Direktor." She says nothing more, did not know what else she should say. What was acceptable? Should she tell him how she worried, how she had lain awake the night before her escape, expecting to be discovered and beaten? How she still does? How she feels that she has left something for nothing, leaving somewhere where at least she knew her trials for the unknown? But she says nothing.

He nods pensively. Then he speaks, not only to her, but to the people around her, "You have nothing more to worry about. You're safe with me now, you're safe. Nothing more will happen to you." The murmurs of _Thank you, Herr Direktor_, are almost too much to bear.

Out of the corner of her eye, Helen sees Rebecca and Joseph link hands gratefully, and tries to be happy, tries to be grateful herself. Somehow, it is difficult.

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><p>Later that day, when the machines are still silent but the throng of people on the factory floor are not, conversing freely with friends and family - the first chance they have had to do so in a very, very long time – Oskar Schindler addresses the guards assigned to the factory as they sit at long tables, their food getting cold in front of them.<p>

He looks along the line of them, Liepold standing closest to him with a distinctly unimpressed look on his face.

When Oskar speaks, it is with finality. "Under Department W provisions, it is unlawful to kill a worker without just cause. Under the Businesses Compensation Fund I am entitled to file damage claims for such deaths. If you shoot without thinking, _you_ go to prison, and I get paid. That's just how it works." He chuckles humourlessly, and there is a pause. "So there will be no summary executions here. There will be no interference of any kind with production. In hopes of ensuring that, guards will no longer be allowed on the factory floor without my authorisation."

He finishes his little speech, and some of the guards look as though they want to protest. Oskar's eyes meet Liepold's mocking ones, hold his icy stare, then return to the guards, most of whom appear as they are, tired, middle-ages reservists. He hesitates, then speaks again. "For your cooperation, you have my gratitude."

He steps away, gesturing to kitchen workers. They immediately open cases of schnapps and begin to set the bottles on the tables. The guards seem to relax and turn their attention to the food and drink laid out in front of them.

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><p>Later still, Oskar turns over in bed to face his wife for the first time in quite a while, and raises his eyebrows. "So? What do you think?" And Emilie smiles. She does not mention his indiscretions or his flaws, but responds jokingly.<p>

"Those SS men… I've given up asking why you're sometimes kinder to them than to me. I _am_ proud of you, Oskar, I really am. You've done so much here."

Oskar laughs. "The SS is a devil, my love. We will conquer him."

"For the fun of it, I suppose…" Emilie sounds resigned, but amused nonetheless.

"Yes."

"And for the pity?"

"Yes, for the pity." Oskar sighs, and Emilie presses a kiss to his cheek.

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><p>As Helen prepares to go to the enormous dormitory which has been set up for their use, she ruminates on her situation. The mattresses cover the floor, and some of them are more than a little grotty, but for most of the workers, they are a blessing. And here there is no fear of a beating. There are so many people, but… Perhaps too many.<p>

As she turns to leave, she catches the eye of a young man who must be in his early twenties, and he grins at her. It is a smile full of promise, and reminds her a little of Lisiek. One of those left behind. She wonders if Lisiek has survived the day, back at the Red House. The Kommandant's absence would have heightened his chances. But there will always be another gun, another guard, another day.

Not here. Here, they cannot be touched. By express orders of the Herr Direktor. It is a relief.

The young man holds her eyes, and she tries to smile back, but it feels wrong. His eyes are blue, but too dark. A dark blue like an evening sky. His hair is too long, and he is unshaven, but he is free. _I am free_, Helen tries to remind herself. But it feels like a lie.

She turns away from the young man whose face and demeanour is all wrong, and goes to the sleeping area with all the other women. Once settled, she falls asleep quickly under a scratchy blanket, exhaustion winning over unease.

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><p>Helen dreams of an open field, under a clear sky, but the blue is almost translucent, bordering on colourless. Not grey, but not quite <em>blue<em>. Like the colour is bleeding out. But the sun is bright, and the grass is soft. She is barefoot, and her dress is white cotton. She does not know where she is going, but on the horizon she sees a forest.

Her sleeping mind has Helen spinning around with the sound of birdsong in her ears, and she smells a sharp scent of cologne. It is almost overpowering, but she sees nothing and feels nothing but peace. At some point in the dream, she falls but she does not mind. For some reason, it does not seem to matter. She is glad.

Even in the half-made world of her dreams, she can feel the wind in her hair. She lies down in the grass, and her vision blurs. There is a sensation of being watched, and when she blinks, there are long fingers entwined with hers.

She closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, it is early morning in Brinnlitz.

Helen wakes with the sound of low, smooth laughter dying in her ears, and tears already drying on her face.

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><p><strong>Hope you liked this chapter - as always, leave me a review or a message! Any feedback welcomed.<strong>

**Also, a quick PSA - I will be changing my pen name to "the-valkyrie-writes" so please bear in mind. It is still me! **

**-The-valkyrie-writes**


	15. The Transience of Gratitude

**Hello there! Behold, a new chapter! Long awaited by so many, thanks for sticking around, and I apologise for being so terrible over the last couple of years. Rest assure, this story is now alive and well, after a long period of hibernation! As always, please let me know your thoughts in a review!**

**Disclaimer: All characters are based on the portrayals of their film counterparts by actors in the 1993 film, ****_Schindler's List_****. Any National Socialist ideals expressed are not my own.**

**- the-valkyrie-writes**

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><p>Despite the unfamiliarity of the situation, the new workers adjusted reasonably quickly to life at Brinnlitz. The situation was, as could be expected, a great deal better than that of Plaszow, even if it were not freedom as such. The SS guards positioned at the entrances to the factory could go no further than the doors, had been forbidden by the Herr Direktor to darken the factory floor. That was how it had been and that was how it would stay. Only the highest of personnel, those who had given authorisation for the transfer of the workers, and those higher still, could have overridden Oskar Schindler's request.<p>

The man's decision, no longer only motivated by monetary gain and selfishness, or a shrewd business sense, had marked him out as other, and despite his affiliation to the Party, he was not viewed as threatening by his Jewish workers, and none would consider him _one of them_. Perhaps it was his laissez-faire attitude to the fact that the work carried out in his factory was often of a far lower standard than the authorities might like to know, the fact that the profit of the company always suffered as a result of the hurried purchase of more satisfactory armaments when the orders came in. And yet none of the workers enquired. They were too grateful, too taken aback by the shelter and help given to them by Schindler, to question why with each day that passed, he himself fell further into debt to maintain the odd set up which was the Brinnlitz factory.

The small town of Brinnlitz, formerly part of Czechoslovakia, had still not grown accustomed to the influx of Jewish workers into the town, and although they had relatively little to do with the everyday lives of the residents, many of the Sudeten-Deutsch begrudged them their presence nonetheless. The graffiti had not stopped, and neither had the disgruntled looks of the townspeople when they passed the factory in their daily lives. Brinnlitz was not a town which was vehemently supportive of the National Socialist regime, but it was loyal in that, as most small towns do, it relied on remaining beneath the notice of the authorities and maintaining a quiet existence. The arrival of Oskar Schindler's workers had not helped this; with more SS men descending on the town as guards, the presence of the war was ever more felt, and this ill-feeling was heaped yet again upon the most easy targets; Schindler's Jewish workers.

The work at the Brinnlitz factory was one which, little though it served its purpose, supposedly contributed to the war effort. The making of shell casings and other armaments was a task deemed as essential by the authorities and thus one which every possible pair of hands was wanted to work on. And thus the creation of the factory was not particularly questioned, or closely speculated, though that may have had a great deal more to do with the not unremarkable bribe paid to Hauptsturmfuhrer Goeth by Oskar Schindler.

Each day which passed without incident was one where Helen felt a little more secure in herself, a little less tightly wound, and a little more accepting of the idea that perhaps, she would not have to return to the lion's den. The work at the factory was not particularly difficult, and in truth, the Herr Direktor seemed to care very little about the quality of the armaments produced, shrugging off any of the concerns of the guards regarding productivity. It was as though nothing could be of less consequence to him.

Helen spent much of her time, on and off the factory floor, with Mila and Rebecca. The three women had become closer in the days since leaving Krakow, and it became normal for them to talk easily during their work, and during the breaks where they could all rest without fear of death or punishment. It truly was a novelty, for all of them.

Perhaps less so for Helen, as her fear, though the threat of death had been ever present, was less one prompted by her general living conditions and everyday sights, than a personal fear which resulted from her immediate surroundings. She had not lived in fear of being shot for making a hinge incorrectly, but had many times considered the potentially fatal consequences of saying the wrong thing, or looking at_him_ the wrong way.

Though different, her suffering had not been lesser than that of the others. But for Mila and Rebecca, the atmosphere in the factory at Brinnlitz, the air of camaraderie between the workers, was so different to the oppressive factory at Plaszow, that they were thankful for any change. They were with their husbands, free to talk and live away from the shadow of the barrel of a gun pointed at their backs. And that was enough.

Helen was younger than the other two women by several years, and so they looked upon her something like a younger sister, though it was clear that her experiences and the loss of her family had aged her so prematurely, that she had the demeanour and maturity of a woman far older than eighteen. Helen often considered it herself, that if they had not been moved to the ghetto, and if by consequence her parents survived and she had never entered KL Plaszow, she would still have been considered practically a child. She probably would still have felt one too. Naïve though she sometimes thought herself to be, Helen had seen more than any girl of eighteen should, and so one could not dismiss her as young or foolish, in any case.

Even the few days away from the oppressive Red House had changed her appearance and demeanour enormously. She had returned from the scared girl who had served the Kommandant to something resembling the free spirited, sharp tongued girl of her childhood. Of course, she was still serious and quiet much of the time, and her eyes more often than not held the glaze of someone who feels utterly alone in the world, but Helen no longer felt so caged.

A ridiculous thought, of course, as there could be no freedom until release from persecution, until the end of the war. And try as she might, Helen found it difficult to associate the idea of a move from one prison to another, though more comfortable and less visibly restricting, with freedom or gratitude.

She grew tired of Mila and Rebecca's constant exclamations of gratitude regarding Brinnlitz and the Herr Direktor. It was as though they chose not to look outside the walls, choosing instead to pretend that this was simply a normal job, in a normal time, where they were free and did not wear a band on their arm that branded them "Juden". Branded them as less than human. She wore it now too. She could not avoid it under orders of the Kommandant, and why stand out. Perversely, wearing it made her feel less alone. They were all forced into their sorrows together, her and these 1200 people who had been "saved". They were all kind, though some were bitter, and some were only children, and some were simply weary ghosts who may as well have not been there at all.

Helen often worked next to an older man, perhaps sixty years old. He reminded her of her grandfather, who had died when she was young, Helen remembered how he always smelled of tobacco. His home was the scent of tobacco, and laughter, and dancing, and traditional Polish food. The man in the factory did not look like her grandfather had, but he spoke with the same barbed humour and wit which her grandfather had, and the crow's feet around his bright green eyes crinkled when he told her a story about his youth on a farm outside Katowice.

That's what they had, these days. Stories. It kept them sane, kept them clinging, even now, to a live they had lived before the occupation, before the war, before their family history became dirt and filth to men who would turn the country inside out if it would make it suit their ideals.

A couple of days after arriving at the factory, Helen had spoken with the young man who had smiled at her so hopefully that first night. He always wore the same shabby work cap and a jacket at least one size too large for him. His name was Simon, and funnily enough, he had lived quite close to Helen in the Kazimierz district. Odd that they had never met, but he was a few years older than her and so wouldn't have had much to do with her or her sisters. Attending a different synagogue, his face was not familiar to her, but something in his manner made him instantly likeable.

Simon had shaggy brown hair, dark eyes, a mouth which always seemed to be smiling, and a loud, somewhat braying laugh. Though there was precious little to laugh about, he was one of those people who found some joy in any small thing which brought a brief respite from work and dwelling upon the tragedy of a situation. He and his brother had lost their ailing mother, their only family after his father had died some years ago, before the war, to the camp transports; she had not been taken from the main camp to work for Schindler, as despite being quite ill, had managed to keep her head low enough not to draw any unwelcome attention to herself.

Schindler's group was a mix of the elderly and the young, the infirm and the troublemakers, and those who had had nowhere else to go but a grave, when they came under the scrutiny of the guards, or even worse, the Kommandant. Simon told their little group, one day as they ate their fairly meagre but at least warm midday meal, that he didn't imagine his mother would still be alive.

"We all know what happens to the transports out. Nothing good." He looked down. "Perhaps it's for the best. I don't think she would have survived another winter. But I wish I could have seen her a last time. I didn't even know when she'd gone."

He shrugged his pain off, as well as any offered words of sympathy. Simon's brother was a topic rarely discussed. His end was neither as ambiguous, nor as expected, as that of Simon's mother. Upon hearing Simon tell the story of his brother's death, Helen kept her thoughts to herself, not wanting to distress the young man. Not wanting to distress her companions, or in fact herself.

"I wasn't there, of course. But some people told me, some people who knew us both. He was my twin. He laughed when I told him he should come and work for the Herr Direktor with me. Said he was happier with the manual work, that lugging things around at least gave him something to do." Simon laughed mirthlessly. "He was restless though." The group waited for him to carry on.

"Max was always more militant than me, about everything. Never settled in school, always dreamed bigger than my family wanted us to. They just wanted us to do well and look after them, but he was always talking about travel and discovery and who knows what else… I didn't think that curiosity and impatience would get him killed. Hot-headed fool." Simon raised one eyebrow. "Another reason to hate this place. If I had been with him, he wouldn't have cooked up such a stupid idea."

Helen felt a cold dread as she realised where Simon's tale was heading.

"He always had such a knack for persuading people to agree with him. Got him killed, of course. Escape plan. What a fool. Just the day before we came here, do you know that? One of the other men got a message to me. I hope it was quick, that's all I can say." He shook his head sadly. "He always used to say that. A fast shot to the head, that's how he wanted to go if he had to die young. Painless, you know?" The group nodded, but Mila and Poldek exchanged glances, knowing as they did what had happened.

Clearly nobody had had the heart to tell the young man about the agonizing death of his brother, Helen held her tongue. He must have been one of those she saw killed that morning when she looked down from the balcony, hearing the screams of the prisoners being ripped apart by those god-awful dogs, and the Kommandant just looking on impassively. Then the shot to the head of the last woman, ending her terrible suffering. Not that it was any mercy.

Later, when they were leaving the factory floor for the night, Helen spoke to Simon.

"If it means anything, I'm sorry. About your brother." She said quietly. He nodded in response but didn't say anything for a few minutes as they walked to the large dormitories.

"Thanks." He replied after a short time. "You know, Helen, I know I'm not the only one who has lost someone here. I'd be surprised if there was anyone in this whole place who hadn't. And I see you talk to the others, but on the other hand you always look like you'd rather be alone. What happened to you?"

Helen hesitated, looking distractedly at the queue of people in front of them. Whether she wanted to divulge her past to this man, friendly though he seemed, and free of any demands on her attentions or sympathies, she was not sure.

"Don't worry if you don't want to tell me." Simon assured her quickly. "I suppose I'm quick to give up my own stories. I want to know people. It's all we have here, each other, and why not learn as much as you can about the people you're surrounded by? We all need each other here. You just have that look. Like you've left someone behind you."

She shrugged. _There's nobody behind me but my own shadow, nobody I'd care to think on._

"I don't have anybody. My parents are dead. My sisters too, probably. I'll never see any of them again." She spoke with only a touch of bitterness, but the sadness which made her body feel heavier, which weighed down her mind, curled around her thoughts like smoke.

"You never talk about it. I've never seen you cry." Simon was shockingly frank. "I cry. Not when anyone can see me, but I do. I'm just trying not to let myself be alone. It's like you seek it."

"Crying won't bring them back. I stopped crying when I came here. I can't sit and think about them, because sometimes it hurts me so much that I feel I can't even breathe, that a knife is being twisted in my stomach until I bleed out. It's only my heart that's bleeding. Slowly." This last, she said shortly. The man was a near stranger and she was telling him all this?

"There's not one thing you've told me that would make anyone think badly of you, Helen. I saw the Herr Direktor speak to you. Do you know him?" Simon asked, curiously.

"Not really. He arranged for me to come here. In a manner of speaking." Helen replied, cautious. A private person by nature, Helen had always despised people who pried into the business of others, but Simon's words seemed good-natured and caring enough, with no hidden motive.

No hidden motive. That was refreshing. He seemed the kind of young man she would have eventually started seeing, upon the recommendation of her family, and eventually married and had children with, a respectable life, and a home nobody would take from her.

Another life. _One of my many ghost lives_. It does no good to think on them, Helen told herself. _This is my life now_.

"I never saw you at the factory." Simon added. He looked at her sideways, removing his cap and running a hand through his messy hair.

"No…" Helen said, non-committal. He looked at her, expectantly. Helen sighed. "I worked at the house, alright? I didn't work in the factory. I was only in the camp for a couple of weeks."

Simon grimaced. "In that case, you might have had it worse than any of us. Waiting on that monster." The reference to the Kommandant was one of the few that she had heard. It was as though the workers had truly left their experiences of the camp behind them.

Helen wasn't sure how she felt about that. They acted as though their fellow prisoners had not died there, as though the camp had been no more than a place of transition before coming to Brinnllitz. They did not take their relative safety for granted, but Helen felt that perhaps they were too willing to accept it as their lot now.

"I doubt I had it worse than those in the camp. I had different fears, perhaps. A different role to fill. I was only a maid." Helen knew she was downplaying her own suffering, but she did not want to draw attention to how she had lived in the Red House. To talk about it would give it weight, would make her think back on the happenings of the weeks before her escape, and she did not want to have to explain.

"Still." Simon tilted his head, considering her. "You must be strong to be here. And the Herr Direktor must like you." It was true that Schindler seemed to keep an eye out for her, and had spoken to her briefly on a couple of occasions.

_Once, the previous day, she had seen him come onto the factory floor with a beautiful woman walking next to him. She was slim and blonde, but her face was serious, and she appeared the kind of person who had known pain but learnt to keep it inside herself. She wore a white suit jacket and skirt, and occasionally laid her hand on Schindler's arm when she spoke. He was attentive to her and laughed when she made a comment, though Helen had not heard, as she was working, what they were saying. The workers all knew of Frau Schindler, Emilie, the long suffering wife who had stayed in Brinnlitz whilst her husband was in Krakow, more often than not gallivanting around with other women._

_She had come to the factory with her husband to look at what he had built there, how the operation was running. It seemed that the Herr Direktor wanted to brag a little, prove that his efforts had not been futile. The accountant, Stern, had accompanied them. Schindler had stopped to greet Helen when he saw her, polishing a shell-casing at one of the machines, and she saw his wife hang back a little as he enquired casually as to how she was finding the work. After she replied quietly, he spoke to some of the other workers around her._

_Helen thought they were going to move along the production line, but as her husband walked past, Emilie Schindler paused by Helen's machine and spoke quietly to her._

_"My husband has told me about you. I think you're very brave, even if you don't realise it." The older woman smiled kindly at Helen, and then she was gone, before Helen could even reply or process what she had said. That the Herr Direktor would have discussed her with his wife was odd, but perhaps just another example of the man's unusual manner. He had saved her, after all. She should be grateful._

_And yet, she feared it would be short lived. She had tried not to consider what would happen when the Herr Kommandant returned and found her missing. There had been talk amongst some of the others of hiding her if he came to inspect the factory, but nobody had considered that he would come looking for her. They did not know the nature of his thoughts regarding Helen. It was a real fear that he would realise where she had gone, despite his refusal to let Schindler add her to the list, and come after her. And God only knew what the consequences would be after that, if he did. For all of them._

"We have met a few times. He is a good man." Helen replied, carefully. Simon nodded.

"Yes… A good man." He chuckled, seemingly to himself, and Helen looked at him in confusion. Simon smiled at her. "Look at it like this, Helen. He could certainly be a lot worse. For most people here, he is a saviour. But really, who wouldn't be, next to the Kommandant?" Helen smiled wanly and nodded in reply.

And wasn't that really the question to which she could not find an answer? If anyone could be a saint next to a murderer, then what was it that really constituted good and evil? Was it innate? Unchangeable?

Or was it simply an accident of circumstance?

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><p><strong>I hope this has been worth the wait! Hope to hear your thoughts soon, and I can confirm that this story is rolling again and I hope it won't be too long before I update again!<strong>

**Next chapter will, possibly, include a summary of how I am going to run a slightly altered reality of the last year of the war, and perhaps a timeline to clarify any uncertainties up to this point.**

**x the-valkyrie-writes**


	16. Realisation

**Hello all! Next installment has arrived. Last time, we saw something of Helen's life in the week since she escaped to Brinnlitz with Oskar's workers in Amon's absence. Here is the long awaited chapter in Amon's point of view.**

**Please read and leave some feedback; constructive criticism is always welcome! As usual, there have been a ton of views but not that many reviews, so please do leave a review if you read this chapter!**

**Also, please do check out my recent one-shot from Helen's perspective after the war, _There Are Some Things I Will Not Tell Them_; this has nothing to do with Fallen, and follows canon timelines. Please give it a look and review if you'd like!**

**DISCLAIMER: This story is based solely on the fictional portrayals in _Schindler's List _of the historical figures mentioned within. I hold no National Socialist ideals myself, and any such sentiments expressed are not my own.**

EDIT: I'd like to thank Ysbaddaden The Brave for informing me that Hebrew was not at this point in common usage as a spoken language, and so Lisiek would have spoken Yiddish, as well as his native Polish, and not Hebrew. Though I try to research thoroughly, I'm not infallible and there are gaps so thanks again!

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><p>The seat of the train carriage in which he sat, though relatively well furnished, was not particularly comfortable, and Amon shifted his weight restlessly as the train rattles along the tracks towards Krakow. The conference of leaders had been, as expected, something of an admonishment to the Kommandants of work camps which were either failing in terms of production or simply too inconsequential to be deemed worthy of continuing support, and an alert that all remaining workers should be put onto the transports to the larger camps at once.<p>

Amon had not had too great an involvement in those talks; Plaszow had already undergone this change; Schindler's workers had been the first to leave, and the general prisoners had simply been shipped to Birkenau without much further ceremony. A few stragglers had remained, necessary to clear building supplies and the last of the work, but they could easily be dealt with.

_Thank God it's nearly over and done with_. Amon was glad that the majority of these transports had been organised in his absence. Little remained to be done at Plaszow, disregarding paperwork and administrative actions which had to be taken.

Amon knew that he ought to seek another post, but he wished, at least for a short time, to return to his hometown of Vienna. Though he was loathe to admit it, his work in Krakow had dragged on, and his position as Kommandant had brought him some profit, but no great joy. The complications with Schindler, and _other things_ had only exacerbated the abrasively tiring nature of the work, and in all honesty, the recent transports made Amon uneasy. The shutting down of the smaller camps felt like a mark of change, of panic in the higher tiers of the Party. The fact that Amon rarely considered the conditions of the camp and their reality for the prisoners, nor did he particularly care about the welfare of the Jews he put to work in the grounds, did not change that he was ready to return to the relative peace of the city and do other things than bark orders and kill for sport. The administrative work he had initially been doing in his home city, though not as hands on, was equally suited to Amon's talents.

Vienna was a city of culture, and the main hub for the Austrian branch of the Party. It was where Amon had first joined in his youth, and where he had grown up. Amon had maintained a home in Vienna during the war, and always liked returning to it when he had the chance. The printing press run by his father still stood in the city, and though Amon's own house was not particularly near to it, he often tried to visit when he was in the city, and look in on the new proprietors, whom he knew reasonably well; their having been friends of his father's. Refreshing though it was to return to Vienna, Amon always felt something of an emptiness upon his re-entering the city; it was as if the fact that the place never seemed to change only highlighted just how much he was altered, from the young man who had left Vienna so full of ambition and restlessness.

Eventually, the train pulled in to the station at Krakow, and Amon was greeted by his driver, who took him back to the villa.

* * *

><p>Amon could sense that something was wrong from the moment that he entered the Red House, but he could not put his finger on quite what it was. He stepped across the threshold and took off his hat, handing it to a maid who had opened the door. She took it carefully from him, eyes lowered, and waited for him to hand her his coat and jacket. It was not Helen, but the other one, Susanne. Amon put his briefcase, containing documents from the conference, on the floor beside him, and removed his outer layers before dismissing the maid with a wave of his hand. His other belongings were being brought in by the groundskeeper.<p>

Taking the case from the floor, he walked slowly up the stairs to his study. The house was, as always, quiet and immaculately clean. Amon opened the briefcase and took out his documents, placing them carefully in a pile on the desk. He shouted for a maid and before long, the door opened and the same maid from earlier entered the room with a pot of coffee. It was early evening, and Amon was exhausted after travelling back from the conference. He disliked travelling by train, but it had been more convenient than driving.

The maid poured the coffee as he looked out of the window behind his desk. The autumn had not yet become cold, although it was already mid-October, and only later in the evening did a chill begin to roll in over the valley. The trees of the forest behind the house had turned from green to a crisp reddish brown, the setting sun turning them gold and casting shadows to filter through the trees onto the cropped grass at the back of the house.

The maid finished making the coffee and spoke quietly.

"The dinner will be ready in one hour, Herr Kommandant," she said. Amon nodded curtly and the girl left quickly.

It occurred to Amon that it was odd for any other maid than Helen to bring the coffee to his study. Susanne had been the daughter of one of the prisoners, recommended to him for his household staff by another officer who had observed her working. She was a little younger than Helen, a sickly-looking, slight wisp of a thing who usually only worked in the house to tidy and help with laundry. She stayed overnight in the barracks with all the others. Perhaps Helen was avoiding him, Amon considered. It would not surprise him, though he was mildly irritated at the thought. Witnessing the execution of the prisoners would have troubled her, and he had cursed himself upon realising that she had seen it.

Though it had been necessary to make an example, in his view, of the culprits, their brutal end could make a man's stomach turn, let alone a woman of weaker countenance. Amon prided himself on his ability to unflinchingly mete out punishment when needed; it was uncharacteristic of him to be merciful and cut short a spectacle of that kind, but by the time he had decided to shoot the remaining prisoners and be done with it, he had just wanted it to be over. Not that he was feeling any sympathy for them, no, it wasn't that, he told himself, but their cries were tiresome. Yes, that was it. An unpleasant issue which had to be dealt with, that was all it was. Everyday business.

Yet, Amon could not shake the feeling that perhaps he was losing his touch. He had never wished to fight at the front, and to be completely honest, his reasoning may have caused his fellow officers to laugh at him and thus he was grateful that the issue had never really arisen. In his youth, Amon's family had moved around fairly often, in Vienna and the surrounding area in Austria-Hungary, and had once lived near a military hospital for the wounded soldiers returning from the Great War, and during that time of just over a year, hardly a day passed where Amon did not witness them being brought back.

On his way to and from his private Catholic school, he would see soldiers in military vehicles being rushed to the hospital, often missing body parts and moaning in pain. Though he grew accustomed to these sights, it never ceased to unsettle him and he often returned home quiet nauseated. Thankfully this aversion to violence and bloodshed had left him in later years, but Amon was always uncomfortable with the idea of fighting on the front lines, for fear of becoming one of them, the wounded, the dead or the damned, carted home in pieces.

Though he was not a squeamish man, Amon held a terrible fear of the darkness which comes with death, and the front lines of war, and he had spent many a sleepless night fearing which role he would be allocated when he first joined the party. In his various roles as an SS Man, there was little risk of him having to fight at the front, but the fear never left him. Though he was capable in his role as Kommandant, Amon often thought that his administrative and back-line roles in the past had suited him better.

There was little left to do at Plaszow now that the transports had left. Amon imagined, from what Sterner and Hoess, the Kommandant of Auschwitz, had said, that the vast majority of the arrivals would go straight to the gas chambers. Amon felt mildly disgruntled at the thought of his hard work, and the work of his officers in making the Jews at Plaszow useful, going to waste. Amon wondered distractedly how Oskar was getting on with the workers, now arrived back in the Sudetenland. Amon envied Oskar, back in his hometown without the pressures of running a camp. Yes, he did have to run the factory, but it seemed less work than the camp, especially seeing as that Jewish accountant of his seemed to do most of the work anyway.

At least they're being put to some use, thought Amon. Though from what he'd heard, Oskar's workers were borderline ineffectual. He let it slide because Oskar was, of course, had paid him a ridiculous amount of money to take the workers to Brinnlitz. And once they were gone, they weren't Amon's concern, really. He could not be expected to take responsibility for a completely external operation like the one Oskar was running.

After a short whole looking over the documents, Amon finished his coffee and stood up, rolling his shirtsleeves to the elbows and leaving his work where it lay on the desk. He went downstairs and left the house through the front door. It was getting dark outside, and the evening air carried with it a light wind. Amon headed towards the kennels where his dogs were being kept. Naturally, he could not have taken them to the conference with him, so Hujar and some other officers had been feeding and exercising them. Although they were trained to attack, they would not do so unless specifically commanded by Amon, and could be managed by the other men when muzzled and leashed. The dogs, Ralf and Rolf, though both enormous in size, were fairly young, four and six years old respectively.

Rolf, a German Pinscher, had been bought by Amon upon his return to Vienna in 1938, after his time in Munich, when he had temporarily resigned from the SS. Amon had attempted a civilian life, which had suited him well, trying to help his family develop the publishing business, but he had no real desire to be involved in publishing, and eventually upon the urging of several previous SS-colleagues, and largely out of boredom, Amon had returned to his previous role and moved back to Vienna, resuming his party activities shortly after the Anschluss which brought Austria-Hungary back under Greater German territory. The dog had been with Amon through his stay in Vienna, and then in Lublin and Krakow in 1942 and 1943. The Alsatian, Ralf, had belonged to a friend in Vienna, who had been required to travel as part of his services to the Party, and couldn't take the animal with him, so had given it to Amon.

Although both fairly well behaved and well-trained guard dogs, though occasionally aggressive, whilst Amon had been in Vienna, he'd later had the idea to train them as attack dogs properly when he was relocated to Lublin, in 1942, under Odilo Globocnik, SS and Police Leader of the Krakow area, to work on Operation Reinhard. This was the code name referring to the establishment of three extermination camps; at Belzec, Sobibor and Treblinka. All participants were sworn to secrecy, and thus Amon had never had the opportunity to speak of his work there with anyone but a select few who worked with him at the time. His was a fairly important role; Amon had been one of the men responsible for the rounding up and transport of Jews, Romas and political prisoners to these camps at that time. Amon's highly praised work in the Operation was what had led to his appointment as Kommandant of KZ Plaszow.

The dogs wagged their tails as Amon approached, nearly unrecognisable from the savage, blood-thirsty creatures who had torn apart the prisoners only a week previously. Ralf, licked Amon's hand as he let them out of the kennel. The animals stayed close to Amon as he sat down heavily on a wooden stool outside the kennel. He smiled, as the stress of the conference bled away. And he sat quietly, looking over the valley. The camp ground was silent and the Appelplatz empty. Without the prisoners, the camp seemed almost peaceful. Amon wondered what the camp would be used for when empty; perhaps a training ground or military facility?

Amon considered his options. After the final closure of the camp, he could request to be moved to another camp to continue working in the same vein. Having had a taste of command, he did not relish the idea of working directly under somebody else in another camp. There was the possibility of going to the front, which he would avoid at all costs. He would perhaps be interested in a training role, teaching younger SS recruits.

Amon had spent some time at the SS training facility at Dachau, near Munich, after his escape from custody after his part in the assassination of the Austrian Chancellor, Engelbert Dollfuss, in an attempted coup in July of 1934, had caused him to be arrested. Amon had, in fact, had a very small role in the plot; only happened to be in one of the various factions of the Austrian National Socialists who had been positioned to take the city once Dollfuss had been disposed of. His escape had been a narrow one, but he had remained at the SS facility until 1935 when he moved to Munich and temporarily quit his Party work.

At the facility, he had made some fast friends amongst the older trainers as well as his contemporaries. The men at the facility had an air of camaraderie which Amon liked, and he would have gladly spent more time there, had he had the opportunity. Most of the men there were young, around Amon's age at the time; he had been twenty six when he arrived there. There were also some women at Dachau; women who chose not to conform to the Party ideal of childbearing and womanhood, but instead opted to join the SS, many of them going to on to work as Aufseherinnen in the camps. It was here that he met Alice Orlowski, a slightly older woman, thirty-one when he met her, who went on to help him at Krakow after she had completed her training.

Alice was somewhat sadistic, and unlike many of the men, actually relished in her work at the camp. She had a nasty habit of whipping prisoners across the eyes with a leather whip she always carried. However, she was reasonably diligent and Amon trusted her with quite a lot of the work in the camp which he himself couldn't oversee, as well as being in charge of a work detail. Alice had since relocated to Auschwitz after the transports had gone, no doubt onto a higher role. Amon had had a grudging respect for these women who had put themselves forward for service; privately, he often thought that they were making far more of a contribution than the women who the propaganda held to be "ideal". They were more interesting company, at least.

Amon had looked up to the trainers at the facility, usually mid-ranking SS men, who always seemed to have an answer and helpful advice for the younger recruits. Amon had been in the SS for quite some time before arriving at Dachau, so had spent a lot of time as something of an apprentice to the trainers, as he had completed his training some time ago. He wouldn't have minded doing something similar once his work at Plaszow-Krakow was complete. After his promotion to _Oberscharfuehrer_ in early 1941, Amon had gained a reputation as a skilled administrator in the operation isolating and relocating the Jewish population of Europe. His new position as _EInsatzfuehrer_ (action leader) and financial officer for the Reich Commission for the Strengthening of German Nationhood (RKFDV) allowed him to move further up the ranks to the position of SS-Untersturmfuehrer, by mid-July of 1941, before he was placed in charge at Plaszow at the start of 1943, as his first assignment in the SS-Totenkopfverbaende, the 'death's head' division in charge of the concentration camp service.

Amon had enjoyed the administrative role in the RKFDV, which largely revolved around the logistics of planning relocations, but thankfully not of executing those operations himself, as he had to do at Plaszow. Now there was a stressful job. Given a choice, Amon would rather return to a similar role, which he could do from Austria. Perhaps he'd ask Scherner to put in a word.

Lost in his thoughts, Amon had not noticed the night creeping in. It was now completely dark outside, and as he realised, he quickly returned the dogs to the kennel and walked around to the back of the house, letting himself in through the kitchen.

The young maid, Susanne, jumped as he entered the kitchen, nearly dropping the tray of dinner she was preparing.

"Herr Kommandant, I-" she stuttered.

"Where is Helen?" Amon cut her off. He wondered why this girl was even still here. And Helen was nowhere to be seen. The girl's eyes flickered towards the basement stairs, and Amon strode over to them without another word to her. He descended the stairs quickly, his boots echoing on the stones, but when he reached the dingy room under the kitchen, he was greeted only with an empty silence. Helen's bed, if you could even call it that, was tidy, but there was no sign of her. Her shabby coat did not hang on the rail by her bed, and what few belongings she had possessed were not on the shelf.

Amon felt a tide of anger rising in him as he cast a final look around the room and stormed back up to the kitchen. Susanne was wringing her hands worriedly, and he stood in front of her, eyes flashing.

"_Where is Helen, Susanne? _I asked you a question!" He said, his voice low and dangerous.

"She… She's not here, Herr Kommandant." Susanne mumbled.

"What do you mean, _not here_?" Amon asked. It was inconceivable that Helen would not be waiting at the house for his return. "She has been sent on an errand? Or taken ill?" He asked, attempting to control his anger.

"I do not know. Sir…" Susanne's timid voice trembled. "Nobody has seen her for some days. I was told to come and do the housework whilst she is gone."

"_GONE? Where in God's name has she gone?" _Amon lost his temper, banging his fist on the table next to the girl, looming over her. She let out a squeak of fright.

"I do not know, she does not speak to me often! I'm sorry, Herr Kommandant!"

"You stupid girl, did it not occur to you to tell me this earlier?" He shouted. Susanne was on the verge of tears.

"I… I…" she stuttered. Amon gritted his teeth.

"_GET OUT! Go on, get out!_" he shouted. Susanne turned and fled, and he called after her. "Wake up that useless stable boy, and get Marek to come here immediately!" As the girl hurried out of the door, Amon gripped the side of the table until his knuckles turned white, his breathing heavy.

Gone? How, and where, could she possibly have gone? If there was one thing Amon had never expected of Helen, it was an attempt at escape. He had thought she had given up any ideas like that, and had he not made it clear that he did not want to harm her. He cursed. He blamed himself for his transgression in the woods, for showing a weakness pointlessly, for now she was gone anyway, probably far from the house, from Krakow, by now, lost to him forever.

He turned and clenched his fist, hitting the kitchen wall with all his strength. A few flakes of plaster crumbled from the wall, and he carried on, the flashes of pain insignificant compare to his anger. Breathing hard, he pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, his mind racing. _Where, where could she have gone? How dare she think she can leave me? Fucking hell, haven't I done enough?_

And somewhere inside him was an inkling of fear that she would tell someone, that he would be discovered and shamed for his mistake, that he would be exposed as a fraud. Amon was furious. But he also felt, oddly enough, betrayed. He had truly thought that, perhaps before she had witnessed the execution, Helen had been warming to him somewhat. Perhaps he was imagining it.

Aside from his anger, Amon had not entertained the idea of letting Helen go after the war more than as a passing thought, not really. He had not spoken in jest when he told Oskar that he wanted to take her to Vienna with him. He truly did wish for her to live with him in the future, and her having fled the Red House in his absence came as an enormous shock and blow to his pride. He had to find her. Not only was he fearful of losing Helen, but what would his subordinates think if it became clear he couldn't control even his staff? Even Schindler was able to…

_Schindler_.

Amon's breath caught in his throat; he could not believe it had even taken him that long. It was the only reasonable explanation he could think of. Who else could have organised safe passage for Helen, a young Jewish woman with no legitimate identification or profession, away from Plaszow without being caught? Who else had the means, and furthermore the motivations, to try and save her from Amon? And hadn't he only a while previously asked Amon if he could take here there with the rest of the workers?

It made perfect sense. Oskar must have somehow organised for Helen to go on his transport to the Sudetenland. He did not understand, though, how either Schindler or Helen could have imagined that he wouldn't figure it out. Amon was callous, too proud and could be cruel, but he was not a stupid man.

Amon did not even want to consider the alternative; that she really had escaped alone and disappeared into one of the cities to hide, making do as best she could. And that he would never see her again. Bad enough if she lived out her life far from him, but what if she was caught and taken to another camp where she wouldn't be Helen, whom he continued to save her from that fate, but just another Jew to be disposed of? _What would he do then?_

_He wouldn't even know._

Amon knew he had to go after her, to persuade her or even just bring her back by force, but he refused to let her go. The audacity of the girl to think she could get away with it! How did Schindler, ungrateful bastard, dare go against his express command when he had forbidden him to take Helen with him, when Amon was funding his entire operation? That funding was now very much hanging in the balance. He would make sure that Oskar paid for this; their friendship was not enough to dull Amon's fury at Oskar's going behind his back in this instance.

He would travel to Brinnlitz to find her. And pray that she was there. That he could bring her back. But this could not go unpunished. As he considered this, the door opened and the elderly groundskeeper, Marek, and the boy, Lisiek, entered the room. Amon stood, drawing himself up to his full, fairly formidable height.

"I will ask you once, and I do not expect lies or omission. Where is Helen Hirsch?" Amon asked, coldly.

"Herr Kommandant, I do not wish to anger you, but nobody has seen Helen for several days. You have been away and thus we did not think you would wish to be disturbed when busy with work. We did not think to contact you." Marek explained, respectfully.

"Well, you thought wrong. I need to know where my staff are at _all_ times, you fool! Bloody Jews, is _this some kind of plot_? Hmm? Are you all expecting to get away scot-free with trying to run away and defy me?"

"No, sir." Marek replied, eyes fixed on the ground. Amon turned his glare on the boy.

"You. You know something about this?" He asked. The boy shook his head. "Look at me when I speak to you!" Both Marek and the boy looked up cautiously.

Despite his silence, Amon caught a glint of something in the boy's eye, as if he knew something he was unwilling to tell, or at least suspected. The young man had a rebellious streak, but knew not to bring the wrath of the Kommandant upon himself.

"Are you sure? You will not be punished if you tell me now where she is." Amon tried to calm his voice. The boy looked like he wanted to say something, but he looked at Amon with obvious loathing, stubbornly silent.

Amon tilted his head expectantly. "_Where. Is. She? I won't ask again."_

Something seemed to snap in the young boy. "I don't know where she is, but good for her if she managed to get away from you!" The boy spat something in his own dirty language.

"Merder! Ir ton nit fardinen ir!"

Though Amon did not understand all of it, the unexpected outburst lay heavy in the air between them.

"WHAT _did you say_?" Amon said, quietly. He narrowed his eyes. "You've got a smart mouth, boy. How dare you?" He raised a hand and backhanded Lisiek about the face, and the boy stumbled, crying out. Amon sneered.

"Please, sir, he is only a boy, he doesn't know what he is saying! Do not punish him!" Marek, wide-eyed, spoke frantically in Lisiek's defence.

"What did he say? The last thing?" Amon barked at the older man. Marek hesitated. "Well? I'll know if you lie to me."

"It is Hebrew, sir. The boy called you a murderer." Marek said, reluctantly. "Please, he is a fool. Do not kill the boy for his mistake, Herr Kommandant."

Amon considered. He would usually think nothing of it. He could take the boy outside and kill him now for his disrespect. And yet, he knew he was close to Helen. He could use him later. And besides, he had other priorities now.

He bent down in front of the boy, who looked at him fearfully. Amon grabbed Lisiek by the collar of his shirt and shook him. _"Never speak to me that way again, or I will end your life. UNDERSTAND?" _He shouted. The boy nodded.

"Now get out of my sight, the both of you!" Amon ordered, and the two left quickly.

He had work to do. He strode from the kitchen, the dinner forgotten on the tray, and to his study.

He picked up the phone and began to make arrangements.

* * *

><p>As they left the building, and walked back to the barracks where the house staff stayed, Marek stopped on the dirt path and squinted at Lisiek in the dark. He examined the boy's eye, which was already starting to swell from the blow which Kommandant Goeth had dealt him.<p>

"What on earth possessed you to say that to him, boy? Are you so sick of life already?" He asked, gently.

Lisiek scuffed the ground with his shoe. "I hate him! I'd rather die than stay here!"

"Well, it looks as though you may get your wish. You know, you're lucky you did not speak in Polish or German, or he would have understood. There is a reason I did not tell him exactly what you said. Never give the Kommandant another reason to want you gone. Saying something like that to him will make him think you are mocking him."

"But Marek, he-" Lisiek began.

"I'll hear no more of it. Keep out of his way, and pray that girl manages to evade him. I fear for her if he finds her." Marek sighed, and the two walked in silence to the barracks.

"Merder! Ir ton nit fardinen ir!"

_Murderer! You do not deserve her._

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><p><strong>As always, thanks for reading and please leave me a review to let me know what you think! <strong>

**I love reading your reviews, and as flattering as it is to receive loads of one-liners saying you like the story and asking for updates, I'd love to get some more detailed reviews from you guys! **

**I really appreciate your taking the time to read; please tell me what you like, what you don't like, what you'd like to see more of, your predictions for the story!**

**-the-valkyrie-writes**


	17. The Spark

**Hey all! I promise, I'll get around to replying to anon reviews eventually, but in the meantime, I was hit with the writing bug and thus present to you the longest chapter yet, and one I've enjoyed writing possibly the most out of any so far! This has been in the works for so long that it's great to finally publish it in some coherent form in the story!**

**I'm pleased to announce that not only are we on 360 reviews, but we recently hit 70,000 views on this story! It's on nearly 100 Favourite Story lists, and is followed by over 100 readers on FF. Thanks to all for the support; I never thought this story would be as big a success as it is! It's on the first Google search results page for Amon Goeth and Helen Hirsch, and I know it's searched for quite often! Do keep reading, and I swear I am intending to be this active until I finish _Fallen_, and hopefully the sequel, _Waltz_.**

**I won't be publishing again until I've had 20 reviews on this chapter; I know very well that there are far more people than that reading and would love some feedback from you all! SO, you know the drill. Detailed reviews, if possible! **

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, characters of Helen, Amon, Oskar and other recognisable characters are based only on their portrayals in the film, _Schindler's List_, no offence is intended, and I do not support National Socialist ideals.**

**Without further ado; Chapter 17.**

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><p>The train ride to Brinnlitz was infinitely more comfortable for Amon than it had been for Schindler's workers. The train was faster and miles above the cattle cars used to transport the Jewish prisoners between camps. The fairly luxury car which Amon rode in had been prepared specifically for him, if in a hurry after his swift decision to follow the tracks of the convoy to Brinnlitz, and barked orders to prepare travel arrangements. Unfortunately, the car had had some fault with it after the long drive to the conference. The train travel was an inconvenience, but unavoidable. Much though he enjoyed not having to go through the stress of catching trains, and be driven around the city, there was something to be said for longer train journeys, especially when the train was comfortable.<p>

To spend hours watching the countryside go by was a pastime Amon rarely had time for, but the six hour train journey to Brünn provided ample opportunity. After Brünn, the closest large city to Brinnlitz, he'd have to take a car; the rail links in former Czechoslovakia were not brilliant. Amon had avoided accompaniment by all but a couple of his inferiors; two junior SS men named Theodor Hartmann and Julius Werner who worked in the camp. He hadn't wanted to take anyone, but to insist upon going alone would have raised suspicion; a routine inspection should have at least one other person there.

The young men were currently in a different carriage of the train, playing cards. Amon had told them he had to do some work, but really, he'd simply wanted to rest; having hardly slept the night before, he was exhausted, but knew he could not let it show. The SS officers were young and high-spirited. Hartmann had only worked at the camp for a year and seemed to view everything as something of a joke; sometimes Amon questioned his dedication to his work, but he seemed to do things to the best of his ability, though the lanky youth worked with an attitude which sometimes seemed suspect. His work was mainly overseeing minor building in the camp, and he wasn't one for harsh punishment, preferring to set the prisoners a task and then hang back and have a cigarette one they were at work.

Werner was a friend of Hujar's, a stocky, red headed man who had come to work at the camp at the same time as him, transferred in from Sobibor after some incident with a shooting which had been witnessed by the wrong officers who had decided to downgrade him. Both men were in their mid-twenties, and had joined the SS fresh out of the Hitlerjugend. Not unlike Amon, that said. However, they lacked the motivation to be anything other than foot soldiers, but could be good company and were helpful enough when asked. And mainly, they didn't pry. They did what they were told and went where they were told without much questioning, and this was what Amon had wanted.

The two men hadn't been told the real reason for the journey; Amon had mentioned that one of Schindler's employees was a former servant, who he'd decided he needed back in the house, but he did not tell them of her escape or who she was. As for the rest, he had to go under the guise of legitimate business, so they were told that they'd be speaking to the guards at the factory whilst the Kommandant carried out an inspection.

Amon thought back to the phone conversation of the previous night. He had dialled Scherner's number straight after confronting the groundskeeper and the boy, and curtly informed him to note that Amon was going to inspect the new facility in Brinnlitz, and that the camp would be left in the charge of his deputies. Such a swift departure so quickly after he'd returned from the conference had been unexpected, but allowed by his superiors, who really did not care particularly about the Kommandant of a fairly low-grade work camp where most of the prisoners had now been dispatched to Auschwitz bar a couple of thousand.

He'd slammed the phone down with shaking hands to contact the rail operator and his driver.

"_So early, sir? Surely, it would be better to call ahead and inform the Herr Direktor of your visit; I am sure he would be willing to facilitate a tour of the premises for you, Herr Kommandant."_

"_No! No, don't call. An inspection should be carried out without advance warning. It provides for more spontaneity; it means I can see what they're really doing, not just what Herr Schindler wants me to see."_

"_Very well, sir. The train will be ready for you at dawn."_

And so, Amon had headed to the train station with the two men in a hired car just after the break of dawn, the train conductor waiting for their arrival. Having not slept at all, Amon felt weary after not even half an hour on the train, and though he had papers and work spread out on the small side table in front of his seat in the train, he slipped in and out of a shallow sleep as the train sped through the towns and fields. He woke only briefly when they had to change train and quickly fell asleep again.

He woke with a jolt some hours later, with a cramp in his leg and a stiff neck, when the compartment door slid open and Werner stuck his head in.

"Ten minutes to Brünn, sir." He said. Amon rubbed his eyes and nodded, gesturing for the younger man to leave.

He swept his papers into a pile and put them in the case on the seat beside him, watching from the window as the countryside changed to city views. He had not been to Brünn before, previously named Brno in the native Slavic languages and dialects, and was surprised to see who similar it was to Vienna, in architectural style at least. The Sudetenland was a rightful part of the Reich, the homeland to many Germans, such as Oskar and his family. More true Germans had moved to the area once the ethnic populations were gradually expelled. Above the city, a castle overlooked Brünn, a bright stone wall encasing the fort complex and dominating the skyline.

When the train slowed to a halt in Brünn Hauptbahnhof, and the three men left the train for the business of the main hall. The high, domed ceiling was impressive to look at, but Amon spared it only a cursory glance as he strode through the hall, other uniformed men nodding respectfully to him, and to the outside to flag down a car to take them to Brinnlitz.

Once they'd found one for a reasonable price, of course to be charged to the camp accounts, they got in and Amon informed the driver of their destination. Once they'd left the station, it became apparent that the driver was keen to give them a tour of the town.

"Its name is Spielberg, sir. Founded in the thirteenth century! Once one of the great attractions of the city; it's used as a model barracks now, in the new style, sir. And a prison, eh?" The driver explained, as he saw Amon looking out of the window towards the castle on the hill.

Many such forts were used as halfway houses for prisoners between transportation to concentration and extermination camps. The university, he was told, was also used as a prison and internment centre, with public executions being a common, and even paid for, sight. Occupation had not changed the appearance of the city, but the atmosphere was quiet and sombre.

The hour-long drive to Brinnlitz was punctuated by the driver's interjections about the history of the area and his family's business, until Amon finally snapped at him to be quiet when he'd had enough. The two SS men spoke quietly to each other in the back of the car until they reached the small town, and the car stopped to let them out at the factory.

"We'll call for another car once we're finished." Amon informed the driver shortly, who nodded once and opened the trunk of the car to give them their belongings before driving away. The town of Brinnlitz was significantly less impressive than Brünn, a fairly mundane, sleepy-looking town.

He noted the graffiti on the wall surrounding Schindler's new base – _Keep the Jewish criminals out of Brinnlitz_ - and chuckled darkly to himself. An attempt at washing it away, not particularly successful, had been made, but nonetheless the letters were still legible. There was nobody outside the factory; it was gone midday but the town was a small place, and most people would have been at home or at work. And Schindler's workforce, as well as the man himself, obviously inside.

The three men made their way to the outer door and knocked. It was opened by a secretary, a mousy woman whose eyes widened at the sight of the Kommandant. Amon did not wait for her permission to go in, and entered the courtyard. The woman gestured to a small room to the side of the gate.

"Do come in, Hauptsturmführer, and I will ring for the Herr Direktor. Is he expecting you?" A small furrow between her brows suggested that she knew he was not.

"No, no. Surprise inspection. But yes, do call him down." Amon smiled pleasantly, but it didn't reach his eyes. The woman hurried to her desk inside the small room and spoke frantically into the phone.

"Put the Herr Direktor on! Yes, you have a visitor, sir. It's the Kommandant, Hauptsturmführer Goeth from Krakow. No, he did not call ahead… I know, sir. I know… Yes… Yes, of course." She covered the receiver with a hand and put her head out of the door, an apologetic smile on her face. "Hauptsturmführer, the Herr Direktor is very busy. He says it would perhaps be best if you returned another day."

Amon felt his temper rising. "Tell him we came by train, and really cannot return another day. I need to see the man _now_. And I want to see the factory floor. These men will speak with the guards on duty," here he gestured to his companions "…whilst I speak with Herr Schindler. Immediately." The woman, wary, nodded and returned to the phone.

"Yes… Yes. I'll ask them to wait. Thank you, sir." She put the phone down and gestured up the staircase. "He is on his way."

Amon narrowed his eyes. "I'll go up, if you don't mind." The woman looked as though she would protest, but seemed to think better of it and sat down at her desk. Amon turned to his inferior officers.

"Wait here for the guards. Talk to them about production, conditions, discipline, that kind of thing. I need to speak with the Herr DIrektor before I go to the floor." They nodded in response and took a seat by the gate.

Amon ascended the steps swiftly, coming to a wide landing where, in front of him, Oskar was just closing a door. The other man turned towards him. He did not look his usual composed self; shirt sleeves rolled up and expression guarded, he moved forward to shake Amon's hand in greeting, but Amon remained stony-faced and did not raise his hand to shake Oskar's.

Oskar, if surprised at the other man's arrival, did not show it, but smiled tightly. "Amon. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? You should have called. Let's take a walk around the premise; you must be thirsty after your journey. You know, there's a wonderful little coffee house just-"

"Stop it, Oskar. Let me into the office. We need to talk." Amon replied, impatiently.

"You came seven hours on the train to talk?" Oskar laughed, but it sounded forced. "You must really miss me in Krakow, eh? Getting bored?"

Amon didn't reply, but gestured to the door. Oskar sighed and opened it again. The room was more sparsely furnished than his office at Emalia in Krakow, but it was a new premise, so perhaps he had not yet taken the time to get in proper furnishings.

"Take a seat, Amon." Oskar sat down heavily behind his desk and gestured to one of the wooden chairs in front of it. Amon sat down and said nothing for a few moments. There was a wide window on one side of the office, like there had been at Emalia, looking onto the factory floor. He couldn't see much except for a few machines with workers attending to them.

"Well? An inspection, you say?" Oskar asked, expectantly. He did not flinch when Amon rose suddenly to his feet.

"I'll not play your games, Oskar!" Amon banged a fist on the desk, but Oskar did not jump. "How did you possibly think you'd get away with it? And after I'd expressly told you not only not to interfere with the staff, but to go behind my back and arrange a place for Helen on your transport?"

Oskar looked at Amon for a moment, his expression unreadable. "My friend, I'm afraid you're mistaken. Your maid isn't here."

"Don't take me for a fool. She's _gone_, they told me. _Escaped_. And where else could she go but your offer of safety and work away from Krakow. I know your game, Oskar. I've known you for long enough to know that your bleeding heart is your weakness! It's one thing to be paying around at being a hero with your Jews, but this? I won't stand for it."

"Well, Amon, I can't say I'm not happy for her if she has gone. Didn't stand a chance in that place. Be reasonable, Amon, you were crushing the life out of her. But she's not here." Oskar insisted. Amon tiled his head to the side, disbelieving. He placed his hat on the table, and went to the large window.

"Amon, come back over here. You won't find anything here. Inspect if you must, but I really think you'd do better to return to Krakow. Aren't the transports still running? And what's this I've heard of a fraud charge? Have they got you over the fire for something?" Oskar asked, sounding only mildly concerned.

It was true that Amon himself had heard rumours of a possible charge and investigation into his accounts and conduct at the camp. Whilst Amon didn't see himself as a criminal or anything like that, it was true that he perhaps twisted the finances every now and again to throw a more lavish party, or buy a more expensive bottle of wine here or there. And well, if that was done by selling off the possessions of the prisoners, who could prove it? But apparently he was under suspicion. Doubtless some jealous, lower ranking officer, disgruntled at low pay rates and long working hours, had gotten fed up and made a remark which had been picked up by Amon's superiors.

According to Reich legislation, all confiscated Jewish property belonged to the state and the authorities, so the fraud charge was more a technical one than anything else. There were also some other things about food rations and treatment of prisoners, but Amon doubted they'd really make anything of that; nobody really cared much about the treatment of the prisoners once they were interned; only if it interfered with some job or another did it become a problem. And although Amon had eased off the random shootings somewhat in recent weeks, there was enough evidence against him to provide suitable grounds for a charge.

"Never mind that, I'll deal with it if it comes up." Amon replies shortly, waving a hand at Oskar as a gesture to sit back down, as the other man rose to approach him at the window.

"Really, Amon…" Was Amon imagining it, or was there a mild tone of worry to Oskar's voice? The unshakeable Oskar Schindler, panicked?

Amon looked over the workers on the factory floor. A few of them looked up but did not appear to recognise him at first glance, though he saw a few turning to whisper to others as they realised who the impromptu visitor was. The women all wore headscarves and so it was difficult to make out features amongst the mass of workers and machines.

One woman who faced away from him laughed as she carried out her work, in response to something the young man beside her, a dark-haired youth in a tatty cap, had said. She shook her head vehemently and called over her shoulder to a woman on the row behind her.

Amon willed her to turn around. It could be her, but it might not be, and Amon was beginning to feel a flicker of doubt in his convictions. What if he's been wrong? What if Helen was lying in a gutter somewhere, already shot in her attempt to escape him, or far away in another city, trying to survive as best she could without papers or money. He would never see her again, would never have the chance to explain to her how he'd felt or how much he'd thought in the past days about what had happened in the woods.

He would never be able to carry out his decision to return with her to Vienna, to perhaps have a life with her away from all this bloodshed and tiresome operation of the camps, a normal life where he would not have to be a shining example, and she would not be a slave. He had dared to hope that one day it would be different, that she would go willingly with him away from the reminders of his work in the camp and her suffering there. He did not stop to consider what she had lost, or how little she knew of anywhere outside Krakow.

The glass was too thick to hear anything more than the noise of machinery which made the armaments produced in the factory, but the young man on the factory floor seemed to be telling jokes. One of the women near him mock punched him in the arm and Amon noted detachedly how much more alive these people seemed here than when they were working at Plaszow; fitting, as so much of the time, the prisoners had been expendable, as good as dead by the time they entered the gate.

The first woman, whose face he couldn't see, moved slightly to the left to put something she was holding in a pile. As she did, her movement light and unencumbered by worry, her scarf caught on the edge of the machine in front of her when she leant forward and was pulled from her head, revealing dark brown curls and face which, though thin and fairly pale, held a small smile.

Time seemed to stop as Amon recognised her. Helen had not looked up at the window, and so he watched her for a moment as she said something to the young man who laughed at her mock stern expression. Amon wanted to turn to Oskar and admonish him, tell him he was withdrawing funding, _anything_, but he was transfixed.

Helen, happy. Helen, laughing. Helen, not fearing for her life or holding up her arms to defend against a barrage of blows from his hands, talking to other people instead of holding her silence. She looked the same, and yet so different to the scared girl who had been working for him for a year.

A woman to the right of her, who seemed vaguely familiar, turned her head to look up at the office window and squinted a little, saying something to Helen who stood next to her, before snapping her head back around for another look at the window and her hand flew to her mouth. A young man to her other side tapped her on the shoulder, his curious expression turning stormy as he saw who was watching them. Helen turned her head almost painfully slowly and saw Amon above them in the office.

It seemed that their eyes met, and Amon could see the good that the week there had done her. Her whole demeanour, though he was not really close enough to see her face, was changed. Amon started to raise a hand, but stopped himself as Helen's smile died on her face. The other woman grabbed Helen's arm and said something to her, her expression full of dread. Amon realised that they probably could not really tell that he was looking at them, only that he was there, and so he averted his gaze to seem like he was still scanning the factory.

* * *

><p>"… And after all, what idiot would dress a woman just to sneak into the barracks?" Simon laughed, and Helen smiled beside him. They were talking about Rebecca and Josef's secret wedding. Rebecca blushed and swatted at him, but Simon twisted out of her way. The two women were working with Simon that day, and as usual he was making fun and telling jokes to pass the time and get through the fairly monotonous work.<p>

"Helen, don't you think it's stupid?" Simon asked her. Helen looked at him in mock-admonishment.

"No, it's terribly romantic." She grinned at Rebecca and winked. The older girl smiled gratefully and turned back to her work. "Hey, Natalia!" She half turned around to call to a woman on the row behind her. "Please bring the cloth over when you're done!" The rag Helen was using to polish shell casings had all but fallen apart, and another woman doing the same job, Natalia – a forty-something year old teacher from Katowice – had said she'd lend Helen her own. As Helen turned to put a casing on the pile next to her, her scarf caught on the machine and came away from her head. Helen tugged it off the edge it had caught on and wrapped it back around her curly hair.

"Yes, Simon; romantic!" Rebecca mock-punched him, and he clutched his arm as though terribly wounded. She giggled, then broke off as she looked up at the office of the Direktor. "Eh, who's the officer?" Rebecca asked idly. A moment later, she realised who she was looking at and grabbed Helen's arm in blind panic. "Helen, don't look! Don't turn around!" She hissed. "It's him!"

But Helen had already turned around instinctively at Rebecca's first comment, and that was when she saw him. Looking down at them with the same impassive stare he'd always had when observing the camp. He seemed to look right at her. Helen was struck with a paralysing shock, but also something of a sigh of relief. She'd been expecting it. And whilst trying not to think about the possibility of the Kommandant coming after her, she realised that she'd still been living on edge waiting for it to happen. And now it had. The wait was over and her week of happiness, of freedom, had come to an end.

Their eyes met and for a moment she thought he'd raise a hand in greeting, but his eyes moved away, to look at the rest of the factory floor. But Helen knew she'd been seen. There was no way he could not have recognised her, he who was so aware of her mannerisms, her movements, had lived in her proximity for a year.

He stepped away from the glass.

So surely, now, he would come for her.

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><p>Amon turned back to Oskar, who was looking at him with a concerned crease between his brows. "Amon?" Oskar said, raising one eyebrow.<p>

"I…" Amon started to speak, but anything he had thought of saying had left him. "I want to see the factory floor." He surprised himself, not mentioning that he'd seen her to Oskar. He should have. He should have closed the whole operation down without a thought. Oskar's betrayal couldn't go unpunished. Another day.

Oskar's expression held a thinly veiled veneer of relief. "Of course. Quickly though. We're in an important stage of production. Armaments, you know. Demand doesn't go down."

Amon nodded vaguely as they descended the stairs. He barely heard the other man speak.

It was a blow. It was one thing to accept that Helen had chosen to escape rather than stay with him at the house. It was quite another to see her free, laughing, with other people, _another man_, amongst her own people, unencumbered by fear or pain. A pang of jealousy hit him unexpectedly. She'd never laughed like that, never smiled without fear with _him_.

It was how he'd always wanted to see her, but now he truly realised that she could never be that way at his side. His very presence was the root of her suffering. Here, she was truly living; a woman, not a ghost. Not the pale, wan servant in his home. This was Helen as she used to be; when she'd questioned him, when she'd not understood her situation, when he'd first met her.

This was Helen when she was whole, unbroken.

And despite the fact that Amon had travelled for seven hours to find her and bring her back, he wanted her to stay that way. Amon Goeth was possibly one of the most selfish people ever to walk the earth. Generosity, mercy, kindness, these things had never been in his nature. He had never allowed them to be. But what he felt for Helen went deeper than lust. He loathed himself for finally admitting it, but he would rather see her one more time like this, flushed with laughter, than every day suffering in his house.

And despite his anger and his shame, he could not take it from her.

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><p>The heavy main door to the factory floor opened slowly, and as Helen had been glancing at it in panic, unable to quiet her fear, for the last ten minutes, she was painfully aware of it when it did finally open fully. Helen watched with dread as the moment she'd been hoping would not come for the last week unfolded before her eyes.<p>

The Kommandant entered the factory, and a hush fell across the room, starting with those nearest the door who'd seen him first. He looked the same as ever. Fully uniformed, he looked coldly over the mass of workers who avoided his gaze. He was as intimidating as ever, but gave the impression of a man who has not slept or rested for some time, his face tightly drawn. Helen froze as he took a few steps further into the factory, followed by the Herr Direktor, who forced a smile onto his face and called out to the workers.

Schindler's voice was smooth and calm, as usual. "The Kommandant is only here for a quick, routine inspection. Please, continue with your work." He nodded encouragingly from behind Goeth.

Though terribly afraid to be once more faced with the man who had caused them all so much suffering and terror, the workers were comforted by Schindler's assurances of safety, and swiftly resumed their tasks. It was not that the Kommandant seemed any different, but his power seemed to hold less sway here, in the domain of the Herr Direktor. Arbitrary killing had been forbidden; surely to go against this so blatantly would not be in the Kommandant's best interests, regarding his superiors? Few of the workers spoke, instead opting to work in silence to avoid undue notice from the unwanted visitor.

Helen's hands shook as she picked up the shell casing in front of her. She fixed her eyes on a scratch in the metal work surface, but could not concentrate even for a moment. Her hands were clammy, Helen glanced over her shoulder, unable to resist the temptation to watch for any sign of recognition, of retribution for her error in attempting to escape him. Over her shoulder, she saw the Kommandant in conversation with the Direktor, who looked as though he was trying to persuade the Kommandant of something.

Helen did not doubt that he had come for her, regardless of Schindler's statement. If it had simply been an inspection, he would have rung ahead, and they would have known. If he had no specific motivation for coming other than checking up on the factory, he would not have come so soon after the conference, and he would not look like he had stepped off one train and straight onto another to hound her into the ground, to punish her for her daring to try and evade him.

If he had rung ahead, they would have hidden her, as they'd discussed. Poldek had mentioned it jokingly, but it was something they'd thought about; to get her out of sight if he came to inspect the factory and lessen her chances of being sent back. One worker was unlikely to make a difference to Schindler, but there was surely a reason he'd asked her to come and given her the means to escape, and to allow herself to be caught would surely end badly for him too.

"Helen." Rebecca's voice in her ear startled Helen from her near-paralysis, the older girl's hands reaching out to hold Helen's as she turned her attention from the men at the door. "Helen, listen to me. Just don't look at him again. He might not even be here for you. He might not care!" There was a hint of desperation in Rebecca's voice as she squeezed Helen's hands.

Angrily, Helen shook her off. How could Rebecca be so naïve? "Of course he's here for me! You don't know him! I cannot hide from him! I knew it, and he's seen me, and I'm going to die, and so are you! You're all in danger, because of me!" She hissed, raising a hand to wipe away the frustrated tears which threatened to spill over onto her cheeks.

The healthier glow she'd developed in the last week was now replaced with an almost ghostly pallor, and her heartbeat was twice as fast as usual. She tried to calm herself, a terrifying weight suffocating her, closing her throat with fear and trepidation. She should have known that one week of freedom was too much, more than she deserved, Helen thought. One week of being away from the lion's den, from the cage which had become her everyday life, had made her brighter, stronger, more than just a shadow of her former self.

It hadn't been buried so deep after all. The layers of fear and pain, of quiet suffering, had been peeled away to reveal the passion she used to feel for life, with a lingering resentment and anger. She was not so quick to accept her lot as many of the other workers, but it did not mean she was not afraid. She was terrified, but at least she knew what she was facing.

She had no advantage over him. She had defied him and would surely be punished. She could not count on him sparing her life or that of anyone else, despite what he had told her, what she had seen, _what he had done_. It had preyed on her mind most nights, the happenings of that morning, and of so many times before that when he had indicated with a word, or a look, that he felt something other for her than disgust. His indoctrination had always won out in the end. He would not lower himself.

Except he had. And-

Footsteps.

She did not dare to look around again, but steeled herself for a blow, a shout, _anything_ to relieve the terrible wait before the explosion she knew was coming. He walked close behind her and Rebecca, and Helen held in a frightened, breathless sob, as he stepped around her machine and walked in front of her.

She could not look up.

She dared not.

She did.

She then knew with a cold certainty that he had seen her before, as he did not give any indication of surprise at seeing her in front of him, but there did not seem to be malice in his face. He looked tired, perhaps angry, and nothing in his demeanour suggested any change in attitude towards the workers, but he did not give the impression of being about to pull out his gun and play the executioner here too.

The shadows under his eyes showed the cracks in his composure. No, Helen thought, this is not a routine inspection. She took a shaking breath and it felt like so long, far too long, that he stood there, though in fact it was barely a moment.

She waited for him to speak. But then the strangest thing happened.

He did not address Helen, or even acknowledge her presence. The Kommandant turned and carried on walking along the line, stopping every so often to look over the shoulder of a worker, or glance at a machine.

She understood, though. This was his way; feigning calm and reasonableness until the last moment, when his rage would engulf anything in his path. And she was the catalyst. She was the spark which would cause the explosion; the flame which would catch everyone around her. He would wait for her to come forward, and he would force her back to the house, or he would observe her silence, her attempt at evading notice, and then kill her and doubtless some of the workers who he saw as complicit in her escape.

Suddenly, she was gripped with a terrible calm. Helen knew what she had to do; what she must do to save the others; her friends and the people who had wanted to protect her, these people who had already suffered enough, most of them far more than she had herself.

She heard, distant as though through water, the Kommandant's voice addressing Schindler. He cleared his throat and his voice seemed off somehow. Not quite there. "Smooth operation, Oskar. Though I hear you're not as productive as hoped. Jews, eh? Should have been Poles, at least." There was no inflection in his voice; it was though he was reading from a script. A low but uncomfortable laugh. She didn't hear the Direktor's reply.

The inspection appeared to be over nearly as soon as it began, and the Kommandant headed out towards the main factory doors without a backwards glance. The Herr Direktor lingered behind him a moment and scanned the factory. He glimpsed Helen, white as a sheet, and looked at her for a moment, his face tight with sympathy, but clearly on edge, and left the factory floor. As the door closed, the buzz of voices rose as the workers got over the shock of seeing the Kommandant here, in their haven.

Helen put down her work in front of her and moved almost imperceptibly towards the door, when a strong hand gripped her forearm.

"Helen? Where are you going?" Simon asked, concern evident in his voice and his face. "You can't go out, not until he's gone. He might see you."

"Of course he's already seen me! He was right here!" Helen whispered.

"Well, I wasn't exactly looking up to see whether he noticed you. Nobody here wants to attract his attention; you know that. But really, why would you go?"

"If I don't, he'll kill us all. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but he won't forgive it. And he won't forgive Schindler for helping me! It's really best. Look, I'm sure it's not forever. It can't go on forever." This last part, Helen told herself as much as she told Simon.

Fairly resigned now, Helen realised that as she had gotten to know her fellow workers over the last few days, she did not want them to suffer on her account. She would suffer alone, as she previously had, and be thankful that she had had this time, at least. Her capture was unavoidable. She'd been naïve, or delusional, to ever think otherwise.

An anguished whisper followed her as she took another step away from her workstation. "Helen, please…" Rebecca pleaded, her eyes filled with tears. Helen looked back at the older girl, but could not think of anything to say to comfort her. She had Josef, and the others. Helen, though she had friends in the group, was close to nobody. She'd told herself it was better that way. She collected herself and slipped through the rows of workers to the side door which led to the stairwell. Cautiously, slowly, she ascended the stairs to knock on the Direktor's office door.

He opened it, and his eyes widened, as he tried to motion discreetly for her to leave. Helen shook her head sadly.

"_I am sorry, Herr Direktor. Thank you for everything."_ She whispered.

Schindler tried to usher her further into the corridor, but she slipped through the gap between him and the open door.

In the room, sat in the chair in front of Schindler's desk, sat the Kommandant, eyes on her as she entered the office and moved to stand in front of him. He rose as she moved towards him, the chair scraping on the ground.

Then, for a long moment, there was only silence.

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><p><strong>Cliffhanger finish to taunt you all! Thanks again for reading, and please let me know what you think! Next chapter is in the works.<strong>

**Also, please note that the AN and timeline from a short while ago have been removed and are now on my profile, if anyone wants to read that.**

**-the-valkyrie-writes**


	18. Impasse

**Hi everyone! Sorry to keep you waiting, this chapter has been a tough one to write, though immensely interesting!**

**Having received too many anonymous reviews to reply here to everyone separately (thank you!), I'm just going to address a few common themes from reviews, at the end of each chapter from now. If you logged in, I do my best to send a message in reply! Have a look at the bottom of this chapter for my comments!**

**Also, I should note here that I've reverted to Amon's canon age; I realised that as I'm going with his real past doings and timeline, I should stick with his real age. Thus, Amon is thirty-five, and will be turning thirty-six at the end of 1944. Oskar is the same age, having turned thirty-six earlier in the story, on the birthday shown in the movie. As for Helen, she mentioned turning eighteen in the February before she came to Plaszow, making her nineteen at the time of this story.**

**Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, "The Spark" has been one of the most reviewed chapters! Here's to hoping that "Impasse" (Chapter 18) will be as successful. I'd like to see 20 reviews before my next update but I'm sure your review speed is faster than my update speed anyway! Apologies for so much of this chapter being AN. Let me know what you think; what you want to see more of, what you want to see less of?**

**Thanks again, and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations…**

**Disclaimer: I do not hold any National Socialist ideals, and would like to make clear that I do not make any profit from this work, nor do I claim to own any of the character portrayals this story is based on. The characters herein are based on the fictional portrayals of Amon Goeth, Helen Hirsch, Oskar Schindler and others as seen in _Schindler's List_.**

**EDIT: To the Guest reviewer who seemed so outraged by my asking for reviews before updating,**

**As a fellow writer, I'm sure you understand that it's good to get feedback on your work; I've found that most people are more than willing to review once given a bit of a nudge. There are so many works out there which don't get reviewed half as much as they ought because people are to lazy to leave a message. It really does make my day to get reviews on this story, and that's why I said I wanted to have a certain amount before I updated again. As it happens, I got far more than that before I was even finished. I'm sorry if that lessened your enjoyment of the story, but I have said it in the past so I can't see why you seem so upset by it now. However, I appreciate where you're coming from, and so from now it will just be a _mild suggestion_ of how many reviews I'd like, rather than a "demand", as you put it. I have no desire for "sycophantic feedback", simply some constructive comments. I do hope you come back to read further updates, and see that I do care what the readers are actually thinking.**

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><p>Amon had been silent as they returned to the office, and Oskar had not wanted to provoke him in any way; the man had all the composure of a ticking bomb. Close as Oskar had stood to Amon during his inspection of the factory floor, he'd seen him see Helen working, and seen him meet her eyes before carrying on past her and saying something to Oskar as if nothing had happened.<p>

It was a curious and dangerous puzzle; why Amon would come all this way and then not make good on the threats that he usually liked to dish out. Oskar hadn't anticipated the visit; if he had, he would have ensured that Helen was elsewhere, perhaps in his house with Emilie, hidden from Amon's searching eyes when he came to the factory to look for her. Oskar knew that was the true motivation for the other man's visit, and thus the need for secrecy and the so-called "surprise inspection".

And yet, Amon had not spoken. In fact, he had not said another word since they left the factory floor. Knowing Amon as he did, Oskar expected it to lead to an outburst once they were back in the office, and was steeling himself for such when they sat back down above the factory. Oskar had cast a cursory glance across the factory floor before clearing his throat when Amon still did not speak, apparently deep in thought.

"Amon, I had to-" He began to speak in a low, almost pleading tone, when he was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door.

He had crossed the room quickly to open it, but the person standing there was not one he wished to see at that moment. Helen looked utterly shell-shocked, practically swaying on her feet, and her eyes were unnaturally bright as she apologised breathlessly to Oskar. He tried frantically to usher her away without Amon noticing, but knew that it was futile.

The look in the girl's eyes was that of someone who has given up. He'd wanted, _so much_, to save her. To give her another chance. And although Amon's reaction had been unfathomable, and Oskar did not yet know the full extent of his fury, he had hoped that the other man wouldn't take it out on the girl. There had yet been a chance for her had she not returned here. Now the last chances for clinging to a façade of innocence were gone, and they would all have to face the consequences.

Despairingly, Oskar watched with increasing horror as Helen slipped into the office to face her tormentor.

* * *

><p>The quiet was fragile. The atmosphere in the office of the Herr Direktor was not dissimilar to that which occurs when someone has knocked a glass from a table, and there is a moment where everyone watching knows that it will shatter, but hopes that it will not. There is always a moment of silence before the glass hits the floor and breaks into a thousand unfixable pieces.<p>

Such was the situation as Helen stood before the Herr Kommandant, shaking but too afraid to break the dense silence. He looked at her, but his expression was impossible to read. He had stood as she entered the room, but the look on his face when she first walked in had not been anger, but surprise. Helen did not understand why; she thought that she knew him well enough to know his intentions whenever he faced her after some minor transgression, but this was on a different scale completely.

Helen knew that her defiance in attempting an escape would not be overlooked, that he was probably devising some terrible way to punish them all even as she stood there.

The quiet was, in the end, broken not by either of the people between whom existed the awful tension, but by the Herr Direktor, who took a step forward into the room after Helen, a pained expression contorting his features. For a moment, Helen felt terribly guilty. He had risked so much to help her, and she had probably just ruined his entire operation.

All his work, gone, because of her foolishness. She glanced quickly at him, attempting to convey her apology without speaking a word, but he did not seem to notice.

"Amon, please. Sit down. Helen, return to the floor." His attempt at detracting from the ice in the air was futile; neither of the two so much as moved. Helen did not dare, and the Kommandant had not yet even acknowledged her.

"Helen, you don't have to do this!" The Herr Direktor sounded almost desperate.

The Kommandant spoke for the first time. "Leave us, Oskar!" He snapped. He looked at the Herr Direktor coldly, and Schindler appeared to think better of intervening.

He had helped Helen and seemed to have her best interests at heart, but after all, he had a business to run, other people to… protect. Helen had accepted that she had to sacrifice herself in order for her friends to have a chance at another life, and although the prospect of returning to Plaszow terrified her, she would rather do it a thousand times over than watch any of the others suffer because of her.

The Direktor sighed and moved cautiously towards the door. "Amon, when you're finished, and I hope you will not be here much longer, to be frank, do call me in." He cast a final apologetic look at Helen and left the room, accepting that there was little more he could to help Helen, now that the Kommandant, and for different reasons, Helen, was set on this course.

Helen could not have said how long they stood there before the Kommandant gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk and spoke curtly to her.

"Sit down." Helen did so without hesitation and waited for him to speak again. She anticipated an explosion; surely this was just the calm before the storm. She'd come to know him enough that she thought she knew exactly what was coming. He sat down heavily in the other chair, the space between the two of them big enough that they were not close, but it was _not enough_.

The Kommandant's voice was low and dangerous. He did not shout, but spoke as if he were simply holding an everyday conversation. "What on earth motivated you to come here, of all places? You didn't think I'd just let you go, when it was so obvious where you'd gone?" He sounded genuinely confused.

Helen swallowed. There was little for her to gain by saying nothing; although she had learnt in the last year that it often paid to keep her mouth shut, she expected death now. But the more attention and blame she took onto herself, the less likely it was that others would suffer for what she'd chosen.

"I… I had to try." It wasn't what she'd planned to say. "I thought you were going to kill me."

The Kommandant narrowed his eyes. "Try? A pitiful attempt, it must be said. As if I would not realise. As though I would let you go." A hint of possessiveness entered his voice as he spoke, the words laced with scorn. "You couldn't hide for long, Helen. And didn't I say I couldn't kill you? You fear that still, after everything?"

She knew to what he was referring. However, that morning in the woods had not reassured her; if anything it had made her more fearful. Helen knew that there were worse things than a quick shot to the temple, things which may have awaited her if she remained at the Red House.

"I always fear it!" Helen had not meant to speak impudently, but her voice rose of its own accord, desperate and a little shrill as she told him, finally, what he refused to believe. "I see you kill every day. Why would I be any different?"

"Helen, my decisions are my own, but you know that this is not the case. I would not kill you without reason." The Kommandant said, shortly.

There it was. Not "I wouldn't kill you." "I wouldn't kill you _without reason_." As if this man was anything but a murderer. As if he could feel a thing. He looked at her as if he was trying to work something out. Not for the first time, Helen observed that his eyes were so pale, it was as though someone had bled all the colour out of them. He waited for her to speak, or to hold her silence. She got the impression that, as usual, it would not matter to him if she replied or not.

Helen's conviction in returning to save her friends made her willing to speak where in the past she would have remained silent. "Please, Herr Kommandant, don't tell me that what you feel, or what you think you feel, makes me any safer. If anything, it means I am more likely to die. I am an inconvenience for you. _A distraction_."

Her frankness seemed like an accusation and it lay heavily in the air between them. The Kommandant did not reply, but looked at her with disbelief. Helen felt curiously detached from herself; as though she should be terribly afraid of speaking so directly but somehow it did not occur to her to stop.

It had played on Helen's mind since she had decided to escape from Plaszow. The fact that he had revealed some weakness, and the fact that she was living with the knowledge of how he felt, put him in danger. If anybody found out, he would be imprisoned. His rank would not save him if he was suspected of feeling anything but disgust for a Jew.

To speak of it now was to invite his wrath but, to be true, Helen was beyond fear for herself. It was as though, in accepting the inevitability of being forced back to Plaszow, she had transcended the terror she had previously felt. Perhaps it was because she had caught a glimpse of another life, and for her, it was enough to know that there was indeed a world outside of those walls, even if she herself would not live to see it for long.

"I will not lie and say that I thought coming here would end my troubles. I suppose I did know, in a way, that you would come. I must beg of you, Herr Kommandant, not to hold others accountable for what was my own decision. These people are innocent, and the Direktor sought only to help me, not to harm you." She spoke for the others, and in doing so, hoped to allay the grievousness of the consequences for them.

The Kommandant laughed humourlessly. He drummed his long fingers on the desk in front of him and glanced across to the factory floor, where the workers continued with their tasks. "His compassion marks him as a fool. Your own suggests you have a death wish. Why did you come here? I walked past you. Of course, you're here now of your own accord, so that's irrelevant at this point, but still. Why?" Although he seemed serious enough, Helen could not accept the implication that he would have left her there.

Helen replied cautiously, her voice quiet and hesitant. "I assumed you expected me to come with you, else you would return and remove me from the factory by force. Perhaps harming others in retribution. It was a threat, was it not? You could end these people's lives with a word. I do not want others to die because of me."

He turned back to face her, his features contorted with anger. "What do you think I'll do, hmm? Murder everyone in the factory? No, don't be ridiculous. Oskar has his own controls here, I can't touch the bloody rats." He spat. Helen paled considerably at his words. He'd made his scorn for the workers and Oskar's attempts at being a saviour abundantly clear.

_Rats_.

The silence was long enough for Helen to know that he too was remembering what she was. Another day, in a dark basement room, and a loss of control which was terrifying to think on. It was as though they had returned to that moment. From his face, it seemed that the Kommandant did not quite know what to say.

It was a risk, but Helen felt the words coming of their own accord. Her voice was quiet but did not shake. _"Is this the face of a rat? Are these the eyes of a rat?"_ Helen saw the Kommandant's eyes widen almost imperceptibly as she spoke. _"Hath not a Jew eyes?" _She faltered on the last word. Something flickered in the Kommandant's eyes; recognition, perhaps, or even regret.

"Will you come back?" He asked, quietly. A crease had appeared between his brows, and he spoke through gritted teeth, as if forced to do something unpleasant. When Helen did not reply, he spoke again. "Will you come back… with me?"

Helen looked up from her lap, where her folded hands lay still, having finally stopped shaking once she'd realised he would not beat her immediately. With a clarity and courage she barely expected of herself, she replied as she had not for so long, since she had arrived at the Red House in those first few days and weeks where she did not yet know what had awaited her. Some of the fire had been breathed back into her by the fresh air which was time away from him, away from the violence which had become her everyday existence.

"What if I said no? Would it be enough to have me killed?" Helen's voice was steady, not betraying the panic she felt.

"You know it wouldn't. I suppose I'd have to take you back by force. It makes little difference to me." His voice was curt but there was no inflection in it; the menace implied by his words did not reach his voice. She looked at him, her dark eyes meeting his unflinchingly. He sighed. For a moment, he appeared more tired than she'd ever seen him, a terrible weariness on his usually unreadable face. "No… Then I would get the next train back to Krakow. Alone."

She could hardly believe what she'd heard. Helen's disbelief must have been apparent on her face, for the Kommandant's eyes narrowed. He stood abruptly, his hand slamming onto the desk next to her as his metal chair moved back with a painful screeching sound. He loomed over her and she shrank back into the chair instinctively.

"For God's sake, Helen! I'm telling the truth, goddamnit! Why do you think I left you there, why do you think I didn't just drag you off the damned factory floor? Why must you test me over and over again?"

He raised a hand, and Helen flinched at the all too familiar scene. She would not say a word, he would strike her. But the blow did not come. The Kommandant's hand dropped away from her face and his fists clenched at his sides. He cursed, before turning away from her and striding across the room. His restlessness when angered was something she was more than familiar with. His outburst returned them to old ground. His rage and her quiet was a situation they knew well, a game they had both learned to play without a fault. It was a return to something Helen knew, and although he scared her, she almost preferred it to the cold uncertainty which had been his demeanour since he'd seen her in the factory.

But he could have hit her. He did not.

She did not reply for a moment. She cleared her throat uncomfortably but he did not turn to face her. When she spoke again it seemed almost for her own benefit, her inner struggle spoken aloud.

"These workers are my people. They are my friends. But I do not feel myself with them. I left my home more than two years ago, and I have not been myself since. If I remain here, I am inconvenient for the Herr Direktor. I don't know what the future is here. If I return, I am willingly going back to my nightmares, but at least it is a nightmare I know well. I am not meant for this life, I think. This is not what I imagined for myself." Helen, to her frustration, felt her eyes well up, and her throat was tight.

The tears prickled at the corner of her eyes. As the Kommandant turned back to look at her from where he stood at the other side of the room, she met his eyes and it felt like giving up.

"Yes." She wiped her eyes roughly, and raised her chin slightly. She could not look weak.

"What?" He nearly whispered it. He moved back towards the desk, incredulity written all over his face.

Helen coloured, red spreading across her cheekbones. She shifted in the chair. She could not find the words to speak for a moment. She stood, uncertain but not cowed.

"I will come back." _I must be mad_, she thought to herself.

The Kommandant paused, and after a moment nodded. When he spoke again, he did so quietly, almost politely.

"Good. Thank you." They were silent for another moment, before he walked suddenly towards the door and opened it, calling for the secretary. He did not address Helen again. Moments later, the Herr Direktor appeared at the open door.

"Amon. What's happening?" He looked at Helen carefully, as if to ascertain she had not been harmed. The Herr Kommandant narrowed his eyes.

"Oskar, I will be returning to Krakow with my men. Helen will be returning to her work in my house." Here he stepped towards the Direktor, and although the other man was taller than the Kommandant, he seemed put off by the Kommandant's sudden change in tone and demeanour.

"You went against my express orders, and then you lied to my face. That is not something I will forget in a hurry. I have overlooked many things regarding your little enterprise, Oskar, but this will not be one of them. You had better learn to be frugal, and improve production, because next month's budget for your sorry factory will be considerable less than you are accustomed to. Be thankful that I'm not reporting you."

His voice was laced with venom and he strode out of the room, motioning for Helen to follow him.

"Get your things." He snapped. She moved hesitantly across the room, but as she left behind him, the Direktor, seemingly at a loss for words, grabbed her arm.

"Be careful, Helen. I'm sorry to have failed you." His expression was one of sorrow; that of someone who is losing someone he cares about, not just a member of his workforce.

There was nothing else to say. She nodded wordlessly and left the office, following the Kommandant back down the stairs where two of the camp guards waited for him. They looked at her with no recognition and next to no interest.

She went quickly to the dormitory area and grabbed her coat and few belongings. She looked round the large room. It was empty, with everyone being on the factory floor at their stations. Alone in the dormitory, on the edge of a return to the most painful experiences of her life, Helen Hirsch allowed herself, for the first time in a long time, to cry.

* * *

><p>Amon's car journey from the factory back to the station in Brünn was quiet. The same driver who had taken Amon and his inferior officers to the factory, clearly remembering Amon's rebuke from before, did not attempt to chat as he had done before. The two younger men were in a different car. Helen sat silently in the back of the black car, not saying a word. Amon had not attempted to address her again once they left the factory other than to inquire whether she had all her things, pitiful as her small number of belongings were, and would not have said anything of import within the driver's hearing anyway.<p>

He could not begin to guess what the girl was thinking. He had been so sure that she would elect to stay. He wondered whether he really would have walked away. He had gone to Brinnlitz with the intention of finding her and bringing her back regardless of what she said or did, of not even asking her or giving the option to stay. His anger when he had discovered her missing had not allowed him to consider the situation properly. She was his servant, after all, and her defiance was unacceptable.

But seeing her with the others, _laughing_, not cowed in fright or silently terrified of another beating, had made him change his mind. It was not as though he felt that he owed her anything. But despite the fact that he wanted her with him for many years yet, he could not shake the feeling that to force her return would be akin to suppressing what little life had surfaced in her in the few days she'd been gone. And he didn't know if he could bear to see her like that again, knowing now how she could be. How she _should _be.

But now… It was as though she had never left. Helen appeared to be consciously avoiding even catching his eye, and had not spoken a word since the factory. It was as though she'd exhausted her reserves of strength and wished to bring no further attention to herself. Amon couldn't say that he blamed her for that.

After some time, the driver reached the train station at Brünn, and Amon paid him with minimal words exchanged, and got out of the car, slamming the door of the passenger seat behind him. Helen slipped out of the back of the car without a word and waited to be told what to do. The other car pulled up behind them in front of the train station, and Amon gestured to his subordinates to hurry up.

The train was just pulling into the platform as they arrived, and it was a flurry of activity which preceded their entry onto the train. Helen hung back hesitantly as Amon spoke briefly to Hartmann and Werner before gesturing a little down the corridor to another carriage.

The two men looked a little surprised. Amon rolled his eyes.

"You can't expect I'd take back a member of my staff without more detailed instruction, do you? Plus, I'll need the time afterwards. Work, and the like. She won't be a problem, I assure you." Amon told the men, internally hoping they wouldn't query further. He wished to speak more to Helen, even though she didn't appear particularly forthcoming at that moment, but the odd dynamic between the two of them was not something he necessarily wished for others to witness any more than necessary.

Werner barked out a laugh. "Yes, sir. God knows, we could do with a bit of a rest… Those guards at the factory didn't half go on."

"Nearly talked my ear off, that bloody Kommandant Liepold. Seems a bit touchy about the whole thing. Said he's not sure about production and legitimacy, to tell the truth, sir." Hartmann added. Amon nodded in acknowledgment.

"Yes, well, I'll expect a report when we return. See that it gets done." He said, dismissively. The other men nodded.

"Heil Hitler." They saluted, and went to the carriage he'd indicated.

This left Amon and Helen standing in the corridor of the train, running along the side of the carriages.

"Come on, then." Amon said, shortly, and didn't wait for a response before rolling back the door to the compartment and placing his belongings on the upholstered bench on one side. Helen stepped inside cautiously, seemingly at a loss for what she should do.

"Planning to stand for the entire journey?" Amon snapped, sarcastically. He shrugged off his uniform jacket and hung it on the peg above his head, below the luggage rack, and undid the top button of his shirt.

Helen did not remove her coat, but sat down gingerly on the other side of the compartment before turning her head to look out of the window as the train started to move, the rattle of the wheels across the metal tracks vibrating the floor of the compartment slightly. Amon rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat down by the window. He supposed that he might as well try to get on with some work, and leaned over to get some papers out of his briefcase, referring to prisoner records and transport organisation for the final closure of the camp in a few months' time.

Oskar's words came back to him; even the thought of the man angered him, but his old friend's mention of the investigation against him had unsettled him more than he'd let on. His query echoed in Amon's mind.

"_And what's this I've heard of a fraud charge? Have they got you over the fire for something?"_

Amon knew that if an investigation were to be pursued, his time in his position would be short. Despite the fact that nobody cared a jot about the welfare of the Jews in the camp, they cared about their money, and the idea that Amon was fixing the accounts wouldn't have been well received by his superiors. It was true that he'd received a couple of probing, and mildly threatening, letters from Scherner and the like, but nothing had been mentioned at the conference, and so Amon was hoping they'd dropped it.

His conduct, Amon could see, was something that could land him in hot water if they wanted to relieve him of his rank. Combined with a fraud charge, if his more unsavoury actions in the camp came to official light, he could be punished severely, regardless of his superiors' personal opinions on the treatment of the prisoners. There would be evidence, of course. And if there wasn't, it could be fabricated. Amon made a mental note to make discreet inquiries amongst his men as to who was snooping in his affairs. It wouldn't do, after a successful tenure as Kommandant, to be demoted or even thrown into prison for some minor transgressions which weren't really harming anybody. Well. Anybody important, at least.

It did worry him, although he'd rather appear unconcerned. The position at Plaszow was one of the most important Amon had held since his work on Operation Reinhard with Globocnik back in 1942, and a more public one. At least working in the shadows, people paid less attention. _There is freedom in anonymity, _he thought.

Amon comforted himself with the thought that in a few months, what he'd done in the camp would matter very little. Once the transports were finished, he could hand over to some lackey to finish clearing the dregs, and move on to a different post. Returning home at least for a while, would be a brief respite, in some ways at least.

There was, though, the issue of Helen. Enormously relieved though he was to see her alive, more so than he'd be willing to admit to any other person, Amon knew that the longer Helen was around him, and especially out of the confines of the camp where he controlled all that was said and done, the more danger he placed himself in. He could not afford accusations of _Rassenschande_ – the race defilement charge which criminalised sexual relations between Aryans and Jews – and he was not foolish enough to think that he was immune from the law.

Regardless of anything which did or did not happen between the two of them, and Amon did not harbour any illusion that Helen would respond to him willingly, there would be rumours if Helen accompanied him to his next post, as a servant or anything else. There were those who would, if pushed, corroborate that she had at one point been a prisoner at Plaszow, and thus could not be anything but a Jew, despite the fact that Amon had done his utmost to erase any outward indicator of her heritage. And they would be watching more closely if he was already under suspicion.

The girl in question at that moment rose quickly to shrug off her coat and settled back on the seat, if a little rigidly. Her clothes were plain, a light blue blouse and brown skirt, but clearly not a uniform. Amon supposed Oskar had bigger financial issues than outfitting his workers. He was used to seeing her in the maid's dress, and although it was odd to see her in somewhat more civilian dress, he could not deny that she looked well, or that without the uniform, she seemed more herself, somehow, and less timid. Perhaps that was just the way she'd spoken to him earlier, though.

Amon saw little use in punishing her for her conduct or her tone, at least not at that point. His priority had been returning to Krakow, not admonishing her in Oskar's office for any longer than necessary. To be honest, despite what he'd told her, he'd simply wanted to leave the place before he did something rash as a result of his anger at Oskar.

She was clearly uncomfortable, and understandably scared, and Amon was overcome with a bizarre urge to say something, anything, to relieve the tension in their carriage.

"We'll… We'll need to change train, at some point." Amon said. Helen started at the sound of his voice and nodded quickly. "The route is not direct, and I could not get a car on short notice…" He continued, somewhat unnecessarily.

He could not imagine what she might be thinking. He tried again.

"Why did you come back?" It wasn't what he'd meant to ask, but it was what came out of his mouth.

Helen frowned slightly and hesitated. Amon's lips curled into a mockery of a smile. "The truth, Helen…" An echo of something he'd told her before.

"You told me to, Herr Kommandant." She spoke quietly but surely. Her small hands fiddled with her skirt, fidgeting as she replied.

Amon rolled his eyes. "I _asked_ you to. Do you think you're some kind of saviour? Making some great _sacrifice_?" He sneered. The thought of Helen being able to protect anybody was laughable.

It was a moment before Helen spoke again, but when she did, it appeared that she had narrowed her eyes the tiniest amount. "Herr Kommandant, _I _do not profess to be anybody's saviour." The placement of the stress in the sentence riled Amon a little. It was like she was accusing him of something.

He chuckled. Helen looked at him suspiciously. Amon leant forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know, I think I prefer you like this." He gestured in the air. "I thought I wanted you… You know, quiet. Unassuming. Meek. I do believe I've changed my mind." He spoke casually, and the lilt of his voice was more reminiscent of somebody who has told an amusing joke and wishes everyone to appreciate it, than a Kommandant speaking to his servant.

This time, Helen's displeasure was more than obvious. Her hands jerked from her lap and she slammed them either side of her on the seat. "I'm so glad to know your _preference_." Her voice was laced with a venom he had not thought her capable of.

Amon was shocked. She'd never dared to speak to him like this before, not even in the old days when she'd first arrived. What had changed in the short time she'd been gone? Just a week, and the girl was hardly recognisable. He leant forwards a little more and she jerked backwards, expecting a blow. It did not come, and Amon only raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

Helen took a deep breath. Amon watched her look out of the window for a moment. "Please do not speak of me as if you know me. As if you care a damn. I know I'm filth to you. Do not feel obliged to lower yourself." Amon noticed the angry flush which was spreading slightly across her neck as she turned to look back at him. She seemed to have lost the fear she'd had.

No, not lost, but put aside, perhaps, in place of other things. What did she think her place was now? It was as though every moment, she was resigned to death, and so nothing could touch her.

"Know this, Helen. I am not going to kill you, but I will make your life exceedingly difficult if you are so impudent. You are still my maid." Amon said, his own anger starting to rise. He suppressed it with some effort; it would do no good to start shouting on a train which doubtless contained other people who would question it.

Questions would arise which he did not need to answer. Why was he travelling alone with his maid? Why was she raising her voice to him? He did not want to have to explain these things to anyone.

Helen did not appear to have any such reservations. "Make my life difficult? _You killed my family_. I have nothing." She nearly spat the sentence out.

_You have me_. He could not placate her, not in the slightest. But he frowned. "I did not. I would have known. I know nothing of your family."

Helen's eyes were bright. "You never asked. My parents died because of you. Shot. I'll never see my sisters again. Because of your men. In the ghetto that night. I saw you there." It was news to Amon. The first time he'd laid eyes on Helen had been in the work yard at Plaszow the day he'd chosen her.

Amon closed his eyes for a moment, wearily. "It was not me who killed them. I gave the orders to round up the Jews of Krakow, not to kill them. I did not control my men fully that night, I admit." The gunfire and shouting of the night and following day returned to him. It had been a drag, he remembered. A stressful job. Rows of people stood up against the walls when they wouldn't cooperate and shot through the temple. Even some who did co-operate. It had been sport for him, for his men. Unfortunate that they had not exercised more self-control.

"You're _lying_. Poldek saw you! With dogs. How many you killed, just you? Fifty? One hundred? I suppose yourself you don't know! Or care!" Helen seemed close to tears as she guessed at his own contribution to the bloodshed.

It was true though. Amon was many things, but not a very good liar, and it was undeniable that he had partaken in the bloodshed during the liquidation of the Krakow ghetto. Amon remembered the first time he'd seen Poldek, clicking his heels like some pathetic little foot-soldier, "clearing the thoroughfare…" Amon had laughed cruelly and let him go, high on the bloodlust of the night like all the rest.

The man had subsequently become his mechanic. Amon could see plainly that he hadn't been completely useless, if something of a reluctant employee. Another one of Schindler's; Amon could imagine where Helen had been getting her information.

Amon noticed that with her frustration, her German was very fragmented, her errors more pronounced. Helen's German was usually very good, but clearly under stress or anger, she reverted to childish patterns of speech. It occurred to him that he'd never heard her speak enough to notice this before. Amon was struck by just how little he really knew the woman he had such odd, confusing, _wrong_ feelings for.

"I…" Amon began to say something but stopped, unsure if he should bother. No harm in it, he supposed. It was only a mild pang of guilt he felt at the truth of the fact that he'd never, in fact, spared a thought for Helen's family or thought much on her life before Plaszow. It was as though he'd assumed the young woman had come into being only for his benefit, and would only remain important as long as she was around him. Nonetheless, small though the feeling was, it was there.

"I'm sorry about your family, Helen." There. He'd tried, at least. Nobody could ask him for anything else. Who were they, anyway? Nameless Jews on a night he could not have distinguished one from the next even if he'd tried.

"Are you?" Helen asked. Her voice was suddenly without any inflection, and it worried him a little. The sudden change from angered to indifferent was abrupt and he could not pinpoint a reason for it.

Amon did not answer. He leant back in his seat, studying her. "You're a bit too honest, Helen. This harshness does not suit you." Helen coloured at his words.

"I am not meek! Whatever you may think, I am human too! Even if you won't let yourself realise it." She _must_ know she is speaking out of turn, Amon thought. But her reactions provoked in him a kind of bizarre fascination, and he wanted her to keep talking. But he did not wish her to hone in on his weaknesses.

Whilst he had not lied when he said he preferred her challenging him, some life in her, than fearful and silent, he disliked the feeling of being questioned, that she would have anything to hold over him. Well. Anything more than she already did.

Helen stilled somewhat. "Herr Kommandant. Why would you have left me?" She spoke so quietly that Amon thought she could have been speaking to herself. She looked up at him with a baffled, direct look. "I had thought you would strike me there and then, and drag me away."

Amon frowned. Although nearly all of her previous experience of him pointed to such a reaction when he found her, he disliked that she still thought of him that way. He had made an effort _not _to strike her when they were in the office, despite the way she had addressed him. He had not mentioned the day of the execution, or what had happened in the woods. He assumed she wanted to forget it.

But it seemed that she would throw it back in his face. He had _tried_ to be kinder. It was not working. But to go back to how it had been would be extraordinarily counter-productive. "I did not wish to drag you anywhere. I wanted you to come back of your own accord. But it seems you still feel I have coerced you, somehow."

Helen didn't seem to have anything to say in reply. "I don't understand."

What could Amon do but explain the truth? He was tired of lying. Helen held in her hands the ability to destroy him, but in doing so, she would also ensure her own death. If she told anybody of his actions in the woods, the retribution for her would undoubtedly be harsher than for him. And despite her attempt at sacrificing herself, surely she wanted to live? She had, until now, displayed an extraordinary sense of self-preservation. Everybody wants to survive, after all.

"Where to begin?" Amon said, more to himself than to Helen. He paused. "I don't suppose… I don't suppose you told anyone?"

"That I was leaving?" Helen asked, a small furrow between her brows.

Amon shook his head. "No. About what happened. With us."

Her eyes widened and she shook her head vehemently as she understood what he was referring to. "Of course not."

"Good. They'd judge you for it too, you know. They'd think you were… complicit." Although it was perfectly true, and not particularly amusing, Amon could not stop himself from smirking just a little. The insinuation that Helen welcomed his advances was a laughable one, but a small part of Amon hoped that the idea was not so repellent to her.

Helen's face twisted. She seemed determined not to speak of it. "I was terrified! You said you were going to kill me! I was in shock. You cannot say I have encouraged you in any way, Herr Kommandant."

"As you wish, Helen. I came to Brinnlitz because it was the only thing I could do. If you had been elsewhere, I might never have seen you again. You could have been dead by now. This world is not safe for you." As Amon spoke this, Helen quirked an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. "You are thinking it is not safe with me. You are not wrong, Helen, but remember that to any other officer, you are nothing. Nobody special. Just another Jew. And most of them would not have let you live so long, especially after your attempt at running away this week."

Amon knew that he was being brusque, but he could hardly tell her of the sleepless night he'd spent imagining her lying at the side of some road, shot through the head or the back by some other SS man who did not wait to hear her explanations. Who took one look at her papers, or lack of them, and thought the world would not miss another Jew?

When he spoke again, he made his voice detached, as though by sounding uncaring, he could lessen the severity of his words, the _weakness_ they displayed. "You could have died." He repeated. "It did not bear thinking about. If you died at someone else's hands, I would never forgive myself. Believe it or not, but it is the truth. I am not a complete monster."

There were a few moments as Helen appeared to try and process that. Amon wondered, as he so often did, what she was thinking. He almost laughed aloud at himself. _Hanging on tenterhooks, waiting to hear what a Jew thinks of me. Who'd have thought?_

"I saw you that day, in the Appellplatz. And I thought to myself, I am not safe. No matter what I thought, what he is trying to convince me, I am not safe. You are a killer. _You enjoy it_." Helen whispered. She seemed on the verge of tears once more. She was usually so stoic, Amon thought.

Not only had Helen become more willing to speak out in her week at the factory, but she seemed less determined to keep everything inside of herself. As if by saying what she felt, she could let go of some of the things which were bothering her. Amon hoped it would last. However, he had known that the topic of the group's execution would come up eventually. He had wished to avoid the subject. He thought he had been in the right. And hadn't he stopped it before its completion?

"Helen, I cannot allow plots to happen in the camp, right under my nose. It looks terrible for me." Amon did not see this as anything other than a perfectly rational explanation. Helen remained the exception. The others, well, usually, why would they not be put down where necessary?

Amon felt his impatience rising. "You are safe. I did not strike you today because I do not want you to think I am a danger to you. In the past, I have been. And even if I were still, is it not enough that you are safe from others? You are in a far better position than you could be, better than you have any right to be. You should be grateful," he snapped.

There was quiet for a long time, after that. There did not seem to be anything else to say. Amon thought that if he continued to talk with her, he would become irrationally angry. He could not sway her, it seemed. She would resent him, regardless of what he said.

It was more than resentment; Amon would not lie to himself. The girl hated him. Amon had never desired anything as much as he wanted Helen to see him as something other than a monster.

_Forbidden fruit_.

Lust was part of what drew him to her, of course. How could it not be? The fact that the consequences of any relationship with one of her ilk would mark him as a criminal did not lessen her appeal. Perhaps it even intensified it. He'd thought her servitude and acquiescence to his commands was appealing, once. Now, it left something of a sour taste in his mouth.

It was an odd dilemma, Amon thought, similar to the one he'd just faced at the factory. He could have just forced her to come with him, but wanted her to make the choice herself. In the same way, Amon knew perfectly well that if he wished to act on his physical desire for Helen, she would be in no position to stop him. But not only did his position make him hesitant to do so, but he now felt that to do so would be counter-productive, and drive her further away from him than he could ever undo. It was not something which could be altered, once done, after all. No, it would be better if she were to come willingly.

She'd chosen to return. It was too much to hope that she'd returned for him. Nonetheless, it did not matter what followed. She was coming back. She was with him. As she should be.

When Amon looked back at her, he was surprised to see that the girl had fallen asleep. Helen appeared to have tried to make herself as small as possible in the corner of the seat, practically hunched in on herself as she slept. It did not look particularly comfortable.

Evidently, she'd overexerted herself. The fight had gone out of her. For now, at least. Amon had rarely seen her in the light as she slept; the basement was so dingy, that on the few occasions he'd been there in the night, unbeknownst to her, he could barely make out her outline. She was softer in sleep. When she'd spoken back to him, practically attacked him with her accusations, she had been all angles and sharp edges. Now the furrow was gone from her brow, although a slight frown lingered on her full lips. _She looks so young_, Amon thought. She _is_ so young, he corrected himself. Twenty at the very most, from what he remembered.

He should be disgusted at the sight of her.

Regardless, it occurred to Amon that she did not at all resemble a rat.

* * *

><p><span><strong>REVIEW TOPICS;<strong>

**Firstly, the topic of how "appropriate" the subject matter is or isn't. So many people start off saying that they feel bad reading stories in this vein. Whilst I understand this, don't feel bad! The real histories of the people mentioned in the story are quite different to the portrayals in Schindler's List. Real events were embellished somewhat in the book, _"Schindler's Ark", _and then that was exaggerated and changed even more before the film was made. Consequently, we should try and divorce this story and the characters from their historical counterparts; I do not intend any offence at all and although I'm very aware of the historical setting, I think it's perfectly possible to respect that whilst engaging in character study and reading about things we find interesting!**

**Secondly, I'm so glad that most people think the character development has been good recently! It was a worry for me, and for some of you, in previous chapters, that Amon in particular was a bit OOC and Helen was not developed enough as a character; I hope I have managed to convince you otherwise at this point, and I'd love to hear any constructive criticism or ideas anyone has.**

**Regarding Helen's decision; obviously this is a big turning point in the story for all the characters, and some of you are probably questioning Helen's motivations. Helen had been trapped at Plaszow for over a year before the story even started. Her view of the outside world has been very narrow. She is fearful of change and uncertainty, as many would be in her situation. I cannot comment at this point on the precise nature of any psychological problems from which Helen would be suffering, but if you've heard the phrase "_better the devil you know than the devil you don't"_, you might understand a bit better. Amon has always been awful to her, and his behaviour is abusive and controlling. However, Helen knows that the war will not go on forever, and she is also aware of Amon's preferential treatment of her. She knows that she is in a far better position than many others. She has no idea what would lie in store for Schindler's workers further down the line, and perhaps thinks that it is better to remain where she was, admittedly suffering but at least knowing what she is letting herself into.**

**Helen is also an uncommonly caring person; to the extent that she would sacrifice herself for her friends and even acquaintances she has only recently met. Her fear of Amon's temper is so extreme that she truly believes he would slaughter the workers as vengeance for her actions. It would not even occur to her that he could be merciful. This isn't to say that Helen is completely selfless and kind, but she does not want others to suffer on her behalf. She feels that she has nobody, but she has seen Rebecca and Josef, and Mila and Poldek, who do have each other and she wishes for them to be able to have a future.**

**I hope that's something of an insight into Helen's mind for those of you who are wondering. Neither of the two main characters are exactly reliable narrators, so unfortunately we can't ever take solely their word on their decisions and the impacts of those decisions!**

**Please leave a review for me with any comments you have about this or the chapter, and I hope to have another update for you shortly!**

**-the-valkyrie-writes**


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